Fare Thee Well
by Samwise221b
Summary: Part 3 of my Sherlock/OC series. The mind is a dangerous thing to loose, but loosing those closest to you can be just as hard. Sherlock and Elfie are trying to piece together the life they once had, however, Sherlock's dark past seems to be holding him back. The drugs, the depression, everything. He's lost in his own mind and there doesn't seem to be a way out; None except her.
1. Ch1: Never had Dreams, Only Nightmares

_Chapter 1: Never had Dreams, Only Nightmares_

"_Keep your eyes on me!"_

"_I…I can't…'m too…tired."_

"_Don't! Don't you dare close your eyes! Stay with me!"_

"…_I love you."_

"_Stop it. Don't you say good-bye; I won't let you."_

"_It's gonna…gonna be okay."_

"_You promised never to leave me."_

"_And…I won't."_

_****6 Weeks Earlier****_

The loud thump of something hitting and knocking over the lamp on the other end of the bedroom causes me to snap my eyes open. What the hell was that? God, it can't be anywhere near morning or any normal time of getting up. I know it's not my son, who occasionally sneak in here, because he would have climbed right up on the bed and not wonder around. Then, becoming more aware of my surroundings, I hear the panting and notice the shift of body weight on the other side of the bed.

Ah, now I understand.

Now I see what's going on.

"Get out…Go away…" comes the soft whimpering beside me and I cautiously turn onto my side. Even in the darkness, I can see the outline of my husband, sitting up straight with his legs pulled in close to his chest and gently rocking back and forth. My heart begins to ache and all I can do is take in a deep breath.

"Sherlock," I whisper, slowly moving closer to him, "Love, your okay." I cautiously set a hand on his sweat drenched back but he doesn't notice or react. He's too lost in his nightmare.

"…Leave us alone…" he begs in his sleep as his body starts to shake, "Stop. Stop. Get out of here."

"Sherlock," I whisper again, but this time I shake his shoulder slightly, "Nothing's going to harm you. Just open your eyes and…"

"NO! GOD, NO!" he suddenly cries out and I immediately sit up straight. His eyes are wide with fear and he's looking around in absolute panic. His breathing is fast and weighted as if he had just finished running a marathon. Yes, he's awake now; he's awake and he's scared. Must have been one of the really bad dreams, then.

"Elfie? Elfie Marie, where are you?" he calls out, looking around and running his hands through the sheets to find me, "Darling, please! I need you."

After quickly flicking on the bedside table lamp, I instantly wrap my arms around my husband's shaking frame and pull him in close to me, "I'm right here, love." I say, "Right beside you."

Sherlock's heavy panting dies down a bit as he becomes more aware of where he is and that he is, in fact, okay. He wraps his trembling arms around my waist, almost like a child gripping onto their blanket, and begins to softly cry onto my shoulder: "Oh my darling, darling girl," he whimpers, "Don't go. Please, don't let go of me."

"Shh, it's alright. I'm here." I coo, running a hand through his messy mop of curls, "You're safe. You're home, Sherlock, its going to be okay." I gently rock him back and forth, just kissing the top of his head and reminding him that he was safe. We stay like this for what feels like forever. This is what we do now; this is how we spend our late nights.

"I…I thought I'd lost you," he finally says, sitting up a bit and cupping my face in his hands, "There was a-a man, someone I had known, and he had you and Hamish, but there was nothing-God, the blood, so much blood."

"Hey, hey, hey, it's alright." I say, rubbing my hands up and down his biceps, "It was just a dream; a horrible dream. You're safe, love." Sherlock lets out a shaky sigh and gently wraps me up in his arms again, nuzzling his head onto my shoulder. I place another kiss on the top of his head and intertwine one of my hands with his: "You said it was someone you had known," I whisper into his hair, "Can you tell me who?"

"No…I cant." He groans, "Please don't make me."

I bite my lower lip and hold him a little tighter. I know whom he saw, even if he doesn't want to tell me. It was Moriarty; it's always Moriarty. Sherlock told me what had happened to James Moriarty that day on the rooftop of St. Barts. I know that he is dead and can't hurt us anymore. And yet, the man still haunts Sherlock just as he did when he was alive. He just won't go away.

"Sherlock," I cautiously say, "he…Moriarty is dead and you know that. He's not going…"  
"Don't pry into this, Fee, please," my husband breathes out between tears, "Just…God, I'm so sorry, my darling."

"For what?"

"For making you go through this every night."

I close my eyes and gulp down tears of my own. He shouldn't be apologizing; this is a sad little routine we have isn't his fault…at least I don't want to think that it is. We remain entangled silently in each other's arms for what feels like an eternity. I can hear his breathing relax more and more with each second and I gently place a kiss on the top of his head.

"There's nothing to apologize for," I whisper, "Nothing at all."

This all started when Sherlock came back home from that awful three year absence, during which he had fallen back into old habits along with dark periods of depression. Things were good for a long time; he went back to work and there were no bad dreams nor panic attacks nor days without getting out of bed. True, the press was hounding him like never before which added some extra stress, but Sherlock seemed to be dealing with it all very well.

He always found time to spend with his family; he and our son, Hamish, are practically inseparable. I decided to cut back on hours at work just so I could be with Hamish more often. As much as he would love to, I'm not letting Sherlock take our son to a crime scene just yet. As for our love life it's…well, it's exciting for sure. I would come home from a long day at work and Sherlock would instantly swoop me up in his arms, kissing my cheek and telling me that he's missed my company. It's a bit out of character for him, but then again he's not _Sherlock Holmes: World's Only Consulting Detective_ when he's with me. With me, he's just my brilliant genius of a husband who loves me and I love him.

He and John are slowly progressing back toward their old partnership, but John is so focused on starting a new life with Mary. They haven't been the same since Sherlock came back and that is reasonable. But deep down, John knows that he needs Sherlock just as much as Sherlock needs him. They are the very definition of best friends; no matter what happens, they always have each other.

Now with Mary in John's life, I was afraid that John would just move on from Sherlock but that doesn't seem to be the case. Their wedding is in a few weeks and (even if he won't say it) Sherlock is happy for his best friend. When John asked him to be his best man, I seriously thought Sherlock was going to pass out due to shock:

"But…why?" he had asked.

"Because you're my best friend, you idiot." John replied with a laugh, "Is that so hard to believe?"

Life, even through the rough patches, seemed to be getting back to normal for us and it was all going to be okay.

But, then a few weeks ago, it all started to go downhill.

The nightmares came back and so did the mood swings. One moment, Sherlock would be his normal self then the next he would be completely shut off to the world around him. He'll lock himself in the bedroom for hours on end and only surface for food (which rarely happens) or if he hears a client coming up the stairs, but even then he'll listen to their case and brush them aside. Hamish will come up to the door begging for Sherlock to read him a story or play some music, but Sherlock just silently lays on the bed, lost in his depression, and I'm left to deal with a very upset toddler.

From time to time, good days or bad, I'll catch Sherlock mindlessly itching at the crook of his left arm. Those are the hardest moments for me because that's when he's craving the drugs. I had hoped he had moved on from that phase of recovery, but John says that he'll never truly be 'over' the drugs: once an addict, always an addict I guess. But on the good days, he's my Sherlock again. He's the world's only consulting detective, whose faced death and still managed to come out on top. He's my husband and I love him. I'll always love him, no matter what.

"You should go back to sleep," Sherlock mumbles, breaking my train of thought and situating his head so that we are looking at each other, "I'm sorry I woke you."

"You know I don't mind," I reply, softly running my fingers through his curls. He smiles meekly at me and leans in close so that his lips meet mine in a soft kiss.

"I love you," he whispers, nuzzling his forehead against mine, "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course, I do." I reply, furrowing my brow in confusing, "what makes you think that I don't?"

"Because I haven't shown it," he says, stroking my cheek, "I haven't been myself and I know it. My mind is…betraying me. But I promise you that I'm going to get better. I promise."

"I know you will," I agree with a small smile, "and know that I love you, no matter what."

"Even if I go mad?"

"That's not going to happen. That, _I_ promise you."

We exchange another kiss then lay back down. Sherlock wraps his arms around my waist again and moves his body as close to me as possible. I turn onto my side so that we are face to face and gently start to stroke his pale cheek: "Do you think you'll fall back asleep tonight?"

"Maybe," he replies, half-heartedly.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask, resting my hands on his chest.

Sherlock gives me that signature half-mouth smirk of his and kisses my forehead: "Just don't go anywhere," he sighs, pulling me in close, "Stay with me."

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere at 5 in the morning," I tease, attempting to lighten the mood. Sherlock chuckles slightly and gently strokes my cheek. My eyelids begin to feel heavy and it becomes difficult to stay awake. My husband can obviously tell so he reaches over me and turns off the light.

"Go to sleep, darling," he says, lying back down, " and don't worry about me, alright?"

"You know I can't do that," I yawn, cuddling up close to him, "I care too much."

"You always have," he replies, stroking my hair, "and I…I thank you for that, truly."

Finally giving in, I close my eyes and place a soft kiss on Sherlock's cheek. I lay my head down and use his chest as a pillow. His steady heartbeat echoes through my ears as I begin to drift off to sleep again. Sherlock remains awake, I know it. He's thinking; that's how he copes with these nightmares. He just thinks.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"Mummy! Daddy! Time to get up!" our son squeals as he climbs up onto the bed, "Uppie, Uppie!"

I slowly open my eyes and am relieved to see the sun peeking through the curtains. At least I was able to get a decent amount of sleep after getting up at five. I wonder if Sherlock did as well? Sitting up slightly, I happily notice that I'm still wrapped in my husband's arms and that he is still peacefully sleeping.

"Mummy, you up?" Hamish giggles as he crawls over to me.

"Yes, sweetheart, I am." I yawn, "Good morning."

"Morning," he says, wiggling his tiny body in between Sherlock and I. Hamish then turns to look at his father, who hasn't stirred yet, and smiles: "Daddy," the little boy whispers, curling up onto Sherlock's chest, "you up?"

Sherlock grumbles in his sleep and 'subconsciously' wraps his arms around Hamish to hold his son in place while he turns onto his back. Hamish lets out a giddy laugh and pokes his father's chest; "Daddy, you up?"

"Mmph," Sherlock mock-mumbles, "Nope. I'm not up...not yet"

"Daddy, you silly." Hamish giggles, "Time to get up."

"I don't think so," Sherlock yawns rather loudly, "Few more minutes." He then gently presses Hamish's head down onto his chest as if to tell him to go back to sleep. Hamish just laughs again and pretty soon Sherlock starts to as well.

I prop myself up on my elbow and smile at them. It's hard to believe that this was the same man as last night, but this is the real Sherlock: the father, the genius, and the human being. His nightmares seem like nothing in the morning and part of me loves that. However, the other part of me knows that they shouldn't be forgotten. Sherlock needs to talk about them, not keep them bottled up inside…but not today.

Not right now, at least.

"Good morning, little one," Sherlock says, finally dropping his façade and propping himself up on his elbows, "Sleep well?"

"Mhm," Hamish replies, sitting in his father's lap, "Now, time to get up! Come on, Dad!"

"Yes, yes, you've made that very clear," Sherlock replies with a yawn, "But you must be patient with me, Hamish. I don't get out of bed as easily as you do."

"Dull." Hamish says, folding his little arms across his chest. Sherlock and I exchange a quick look and I can't help but let out a small laugh. Good Lord, this boy is his father's son.

It's hard to believe that three years ago I was pregnant, living in a sort of haze because I believed my husband to be dead and that I was going to raise this child all on my own. God, that was such an awful time, but I made it through. I raised Hamish to the best of ability and I couldn't be more proud of him. He's so bright and so advanced for his age (he is a Holmes after all). Sometimes

Everyday, Hamish looks more and more like his father. I'll admit that I was nervous when Sherlock came home after his three-year absence. I was afraid Hamish wouldn't take to him, that he'd not know whom he was and thus not have a relationship with his father. Thankfully, my fears were crushed. Hamish and Sherlock are inseparable, a true pair. Who would have ever thought that Sherlock Holmes' better half would come out because of a child? They're my boys, my family and my world.

Stretching his back, Sherlock takes a hold of Hamish and slowly gets out of bed. He sets the giddy toddler on his hip and walks over to the wardrobe: "Well, you've got me out of bed before 10 am. You must be eager to get the day going." he says, pulling out his blue dressing gown with his free hand, "so then, what shall we do today?"

"No work, Daddy?" Hamish asks, getting rather excited. I sit up fully, also excited to hear that he won't be working today. He and John did just finish a robbery case a few days ago, but in 'Sherlock time' that was ages ago. I would have thought he'd immediately want to take on another one.

"Not today," Sherlock replies with a smile, "Today, my time and energy is devoted to you and, of course, your mother." He then turns to me; "that is if she'll have me." He teases with that signature click of his tongue. I let out a small giggle and pull my knees in close to my chest; Goodness, who is this suave young man and what has he done with my Sherlock?

"Then…breakfast?" Hamish asks, looking directly at me.

"In a little bit, sweetheart," I say with a chuckle, "Let Dad and I get dressed and then I'll make you some pancakes, okay?"  
"Yes, please." The toddler squeals, "Hurry, though." And with that, our son climbs down and out of his father's arms and scurries out to the living room.

"He gets that from you," Sherlock says, putting on his robe and running a hand through his messy curls, "that early morning energy."

"Maybe, but the impatience comes from you." I quip back with a smirk. My husband chuckles and comes back toward the bed. To my surprise, but not displeasure, Sherlock takes both my hands into his and pulls me up out of bed and into his arms. His always staggeringly beautiful, sea foam green eyes gaze into my emerald ones and a small, quaint, smile grows across his lips.

"What?" I ask, my cheeks turning a bright shade of pink, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Come here," he whispers, wrapping a hand behind my neck and pulling me in close. Our lips immediately lock in a deep kiss and I close my eyes, enjoying every second of this moment. My heart is racing as our kiss intensifies and I rub my hands up and down is chest. I feel Sherlock gently begin to massage the back of my neck and rest his free hand on my hip.

Yes, this definitely is not the same man as the one last night.

"I love you," he whispers when our lips finally part,

"I love you too," I reply in a breathy voice, "and thank you for…whatever that was."

"Can't I show my wife some affection every now and then?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, "That is part of my duty as a husband, you know."

"Don't be such a smartass," I say, playfully smacking his chest, "I just meant that that kiss was a nice surprise. To be honest, I thought…" I stop myself short and look away from him; I don't want to ruin this moment, let alone his good mood, by bringing up last night.

"You thought what?" Sherlock urges me to go on.

"Well, after last night." I regretfully say, "I thought today was going to be, you know, one of _those_ days."

The sweet and charming look disappears from Sherlock's gaze and is quickly replaced with coldness and a touch of hurt. Damn it, now I've ruined the day already.

"Sherlock," I begin, but he places a soft finger to my lips.

"It's alright." He says with a heavy sigh, "I understand your concern. Let me assure you, Elfie, that…that I am perfectly fine. Yes, I'm fine. It's just as you said; it was just a nightmare, nothing more. Although I greatly enjoyed your comfort…let us forget it ever happened, shall we?"

"Sherlock, you know that I can't let you do that." I say, taking his hands into mine, "This has been going on for almost a whole week now and, quite honestly love, it scares me. You need to talk about this, if not with me then at least with John. He is your doctor after all."

"No, I don't need to talk about anything. As I said, I'm fine." Sherlock quickly replies, looking down at his feet, "Leave it alone."

"But how can I?" I say, "I don't like seeing you like this."

"And you think I'm enjoying constantly having my mind fall apart nightly?" Sherlock suddenly snaps, glaring at me, "There is a war going on inside my brain, Elfie; a war that I brought upon myself and that I have to fix by myself. There's nothing you can do for me; nothing that will result in immediate results, that's for certain."

Sherlock's voice softens again and I watch as he stares off into space. His eyes are focused on some imaginary point and he looks like he does when he slips into that mind palace of his. Only I know that that's not where his mind is. With a heavy heart, I watch as the fingers of his right hand scratch at the tiny mark just below the crook of his left elbow.

The mark from where he would shoot up.

The mark that needle left in his skin.

It, truly, makes me sick to my stomach.

Unable to bear it anymore, I quickly slap his hand back down and then cup his face in my hands, forcing him to look me in the eyes: "Stop it!" I hiss, "Stop that scratching, you know I hate it!" Sherlock snaps out of his small trance and just stares at me, doe-eyed and bewildered. The tension is thick; nothing at all like it was just moments ago when we were with our son. Regretting how harsh my motions may have been just now; I let out a heavy sigh and lower my hands to rest on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I shouldn't have…"  
"No, no, you should have." He replies, "I…I lost myself for a moment there."

Cautiously and gently, I lean forward and wrap my arms around him. A single tear rolls down my cheek: "Let me help you." I whisper, bringing my forehead to rest on his chest, "Please."

He wraps his arms around me as well and rests his cheek atop my head: "You can't." Sherlock says after a long pause, "I can't let you."

"Daddy, Mummy, you coming?" Hamish calls from the living room, breaking the tension. Sherlock places a soft kiss on the top of my head and lets go of me.

"I'll go check on him." He says, heading for the door. I dry my eyes on the sleeves of my pajama top but then quickly take my husband's hand into my own. He looks down at our intertwined fingers and then back at me; the shadow of a smile on his lips.

"I love you," I say, walking in step with him.

"I love you too," he replies, giving my hand a quick squeeze, "and…I'm going to fix this. You just have to trust me. Do you trust me, Fee?"

"Always." I reply in a soft voice, "Always, Sherlock."

_**Hello!**_

_**Well this is my third installment this series I've created. I truly never thought it would go this far but I am glad that it did. If you haven't read my other two ('The Woman at His Side' and 'I Won't See You Know Till I Surrender'), please go over and do so. I don't want those who may be interested getting confused. Xoxo**_

_**For those who have followed this series, thank you and I hope you'll enjoy this one. This story will be a tad darker then my previous two, so please be advised of that. I will try to update as often as I can, but life always seems to get in the way.**_

_**Please comment, follow, fave and I all the jazz. It really does help the writing process.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_


	2. Chapter 2: Mood Swings

_**Wow, I mean, wow.**_

_**I didn't realize there would be such a response for the first chapter. Thank you very much, lovelies and keep the reviews coming. They really do help.**_

_**This chapter is a bit shorter (work, life, bleh) but I hope it is enjoyable. I'll be getting into the case for this story very soon as well as taking a stab at writing from Sherlock's POV. We'll see how that goes. :)**_

_**As always, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Oh and… JANUARY 19**__**th**__** equals Season 3 here in the US! WOO HOO!**_

_**Okay, now I'm done….**_

_Chapter 2: Mood Swings_

A short while later, I'm in the kitchen cutting a few pancakes into tiny bits for Hamish, who is eagerly waiting for his breakfast while tugging at my pant leg. Sherlock is in the living room, facing out the window and completely locked away in his mind. He hasn't uttered a word to me sense we came out of the bedroom. Is he mad at me? No, I don't think so. I think he's just upset with this whole nightmare situation and, in truth, as am I.

The flat was filled with the sound of Sherlock's sweet violin. A simple, melodic tune that's neither happy nor sad; it's just beautiful. I always love to hear him play. I've watched him while he's writing his own compositions or playing some of his favorite songs and there is an honest look of joy on his face. I remember the first time I heard him play; so smooth and so comforting. I was blown away by his skill, but then again Sherlock is always just full of surprises.

To be honest, I think music is the only real release Sherlock gets from the world. His brain is always working a million miles a minute trying to solve a case for Lestrade and things like, but when he's playing his music Sherlock puts all of that on hold. The only other time I've known him to set the work aside is when he's with Hamish and I; who would've guessed that Sherlock Holmes would choose a wife and child over solving crimes.

"There you are, sweetheart," I say, handing Hamish his paper plate of pancake bits, "Be careful with it now."

"I will." He replies, "Sit with Dad?"

"Hamish, what's the rule about eating in the living room?"

"But, Mummy. Music!"

A proud smile grows across my face as I look at my son's pleading eyes. He loves to watch Sherlock play; there's something about Sherlock gliding that bow across those strings that makes Hamish so mesmerized. Maybe one day, he'll want to be a musician. He has already asked me if he can have a violin just like Sherlock, but of course he's far too young.

Giving in to those adorable eyes of his, I kneel down to his level and place his plastic blue fork on his plate: "Just be careful not to spill," I say and my son's face immediately lights up.

In the blink of an eye, Hamish rushes to the living room, clutching onto the plate for dear life. I stand up and watch as he plops down at his usual spot at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock pauses his playing for a moment and looks down at his son.

"Hello there," I hear him say, "does your mother know that you're eating out here?"

"Mhm," Hamish replies, "she say it oh-tay as long I don't spill."

"Ah, I see and what is the reason you've decided to have breakfast out here instead of at the table?"

"Music, Daddy. I like your music. I like to watch."

"Well, you can't really watch properly from down there now can you. Hold onto your plate, young man."

I lean in kitchen archway and fold my arms across my chest as I happily watch my husband lift Hamish up into his arms then set him down atop the desk beside the window. Sherlock then picks up his violin and resumes playing while Hamish just looks on in awe. The sweet sound fills the flat once more and, for now, nothing seems to be wrong. Everything is as it should be.

Realizing my own hunger, I grab myself a plate of food then take a seat at the counter to continue watching my boys. As the song comes to an end, Sherlock strikes the final chord, gracefully lowers the instrument to his side then playfully bows for his son. Our son giddily claps, nearly knocking over his plate.

"Boo-tea-full." He mumbles through a mouth full of food.

"Chew your food, Hamish," Sherlock says, putting the violin away, "It's horrible manners to talk with your mouth full."

Hamish nods then takes an exaggerated swallow: "Oh-tay, I done." He declares rather proudly, "Now, up Dad. Please?"

A smirk grows across Sherlock's face and he scoops the eager toddler up into his arms. Hamish nuzzles his little head onto his father's shoulder while Sherlock gently rocks him back and forth in his arms. A warm smile grows across my face and I just watch them walk around the living room together, talking in hushed tones and sharing little secrets with one another. I catch attention to the small grunts Sherlock makes as he adjusts his hold on his son; it seems almost as if he's not strong enough to hold Hamish, which is likely. Sherlock's strength isn't what it used to be, especially after getting little amount of sleep last night.

"You're getting too big for me to hold you like this," Sherlock says, balancing Hamish on his boney hip, "It would seem your growing up too fast."

"No, you silly." Hamish replies with a giggle, "I still small. I only tree."

"You are three that's right," Sherlock agrees, walking over to the fireplace and examining his prized skull, "You turned three just a few days ago."

"Mhm," Hamish says with a nod, "Jawn came. He say I big too."

"John says that you're big? Hmm, well you were a rather large newborn if I remember correctly."

"You member?"  
"Yes, I remember when you were born."

"Why?"

That's his favorite question. Most of the time it's Sherlock's least favorite word but, of course, because it's Hamish, he'll find a way to answer him.

"Because it was a very important moment for me and your mother." Sherlock replies, "People remember tend to always remember very important things such as that."

"Why?"

"Because its special to them."

Hamish furrows his little forehead in confusion for a bit then looks back at Sherlock: "I not remember dat."

"Of course, you don't remember," Sherlock replies with a chuckle, "Even if you could, young man, you wouldn't remember me being there."

"Why?"

"Well…" Sherlock pauses for a moment and I can't help but giggle to myself. Normally, if it were anyone else asking why, Sherlock would give some elaborate explanation about how a child's cognitive memory doesn't take affect until they are at least 4 years old, but sense it is his son, he settles with: "I looked very different that day, Hamish."

"Why?" our son asks again.

"Because that was a long time ago," Sherlock replies, "I was…different." His gaze then turns toward the mirror above the mantelpiece and I can see him slip deep into his mind palace. He's thinking about that time: the time in which he was dead to the world and was missing so much.

Sherlock was supposed to be dead during my pregnancy but he managed to sneak away from hunting down Moriarty's men to be in the delivery room. He was disguised as nurse with black-rimmed glasses and blonde hair; he really looked nothing like his regular self. I remember talking to him, holding his hand during the delivery and him comforting me the whole time, however, when it was done he was gone in the blink of an eye.

Sherlock has told me that he fell into deep depression after leaving the hospital. He said that he couldn't take the thought of being without his family any longer and thus drank himself to sleep that night. It's hard to think of Sherlock sinking that low, that's just not who he is. Then again, that three-year absence changed my husband even to the point where I sometimes don't really know him anymore. It's scary and hard to deal with, but we make it by.

We're going to be okay.

Won't we? 

"Daddy, you doing it again." Hamish says, playfully poking Sherlock's cheek, "Hello?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, sorry." Sherlock replies, blinking his eyes and coming back to reality, "I was just thinking for a moment. Apologizes, Hamish."

"It oh-tay," Hamish giggles, placing a kiss on his father's cheek, "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, young man." He replies, kissing his son's forehead, "Yes, I love you very much."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock finally sees me at the counter and I simply smile back at him. There's still a bit of tension between us, but neither of us wants to address it…well, I certainly don't. But that tension is quickly set aside as he gazes at me with the softest expression. My heart is suddenly all a flutter and I can feel my cheeks turn a shade of pink.

He always does this to me; he's the only one who can.

Sherlock then walks over to me and kisses the top of my head: "I love you as well, my darling." He whispers into my hair, "Truly."

"I know you do," I whisper, taking one of his hands into mine, "You're such a big softie."

"Softie?" Sherlock asks, looking at me like I'm a madwoman, "What on Earth is that suppose to mean?"  
"It means that you're sentimental." I explain with a laugh, "It's not an insult."

"Sentimental? Me?" he asks, taking a seat beside me, "You do, of course, realize whom you are speaking too."

"Yes, I do." I reply, playfully nudging his arm, "and I think that despite this lean, mean, thinking machine façade you put on, Sherlock Holmes, you are a sentimental man."

"Only around you." He whispers, kissing my cheek, "Don't tell John."

I chuckle slightly then rest my head on his shoulder. Sherlock then wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close so he can rest his head atop mine. I close my eyes and just take in this moment; we don't have quiet moments like this anymore: moments when it's as if nothing in the world could break us apart. The moments when our world feels as if it's back to normal…whatever that may be.

Suddenly, there is a loud knock at the downstairs door, breaking the overall feel of the room. I open my eyes and lift my head; who could that be? More importantly why did they have to come by right now?

"That'll be John." Sherlock says, answering my unspoken questions, "This is the usual time he stops by to start Mother Henning me with all that medicine and so-called therapeutic advice."

"Don't make it sound like torture, Sherlock, he's doing his job as your doctor." I counter point, sitting up straight, "John just wants to make sure your health gets back to normal."

"God knows that venture is a lost cause," he mutters under his breath. I give off a heavy sigh and move away from him. I hate it when he says things like that; Sherlock may not care about his 'transport', but I do.

When Sherlock started falling ill because his detox, I went straight to John for help. I was so afraid that I was going to loose my husband to either the illness or the depression; It was unbearable to watch him lie in bed, moaning and twitching like that. John, being the loyal and amazing friend that he is, has been the best help I could have ever asked for: given Sherlock the proper medication, let me know and showing me what I can do in the process of my husband's recovery. Without John, I honestly don't know where we'd be now.

He also helped with Sherlock's nightmares. John is the only one my husband has told about what exactly it is that he dreams about. I don't take it personal; as I've always known, I may be Sherlock Holmes' wife, but I could never be his John Watson. John was the one to suggest that Sherlock may be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; that's what the medication is more for now rather than the withdrawal. Even though Sherlock had told me of his hard times during his three-year absence, I foolishly never thought that that could be the reason behind his nightmares. I guess that's what makes John the professional and not me.

"Jawn here? I get it! I get it!" Hamish squeals, fidgeting in his father's hold, "Please, Daddy?"

"Alright, but please be very careful." Sherlock warns, setting Hamish down, "Stay against the wall."

"Oh-tay." And in the blink of an eye, Hamish is scurrying out of the kitchen and toward the staircase. The protective mother side of me kicking in, I start to get up but Sherlock gently pushes me to sit back down.

"Let him be," he says, pulling me back to sit in his lap, "He'll be alright."

"You say that now, but what if he falls." I protest, attempting to break free, "You know how excited he gets. What if he trips? Then we'll…" Sherlock suddenly crashes his lips against my own in a passionate kiss and it stops my sentence short. It takes me a few moments to realize what's happening but when I do, I return the gesture. He hasn't kissed me like this in, well, in forever! This is completely different then the man who was in the bedroom.

"Well," I breathe out when we break, "that…that was…unexpected."

"But enjoyable?" Sherlock teases, stealing another kiss on my cheek.

"Are you trying to get me to forgive you for that little comment you made about your health?"

"…Is it working?"

"No."  
"Then I'll just have to keep trying, won't I?" Sherlock chuckles at himself and then nuzzles his forehead against mine: "What are you going to be doing for the rest of the day?" he asks in a soft voice.

"Um, I'm probably going to clean this place up," I reply, taken back by his uncharacteristic sweetness right now, "Why? What did you have in mind?"  
A sly smile grows across his lips and there is sort of sparkle in his eyes: "I do believe I've taught you some skill in the science of deduction, my darling," he coos, slowly moving his hands up and under the back of my shirt, "Think."

Sherlock places a trail of kisses along the side of my neck and a chill runs up my spine. Really? He wants to? Right now? Okay, he has to be sleep deprived. That's the only explanation I can think of for this weird behavior.

"Sherlock," I say, slowly pulling away and standing up, "What…what are you doing?"

"Loving you," he replies rather matter of factly as he stands as well, "isn't it obvious?"

"Well, yes, but…is now really the time?"

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion: "Is there something your not telling me?" he asks, "To be quite honest, darling, you're hard to read at the moment."

"Well, I…I don't know," I stutter, "I just feel like-"

"You're still upset with me." Sherlock interrupts in his signature way, "Ah, now I see. Obvious."

"No, I didn't say that, love." I say, "I'm not upset."

"Don't lie to me, Elfie." He says, sounding frustrated and annoyed, "That's what you were getting at."  
"No, I wasn't."  
"Yes, you were. You're still upset about last night and won't drop it until we have a discussion about it, which is frankly a huge waste of time."

"Sherlock, who said anything about last night?"

"You didn't have to; I know it's still on your mind. I'm not an idiot, Elfie Marie, nor do I appreciate being treated as such."

"Sher-"

"Am I interrupting a domestic?"

Both my husband and I turn our attention to the familiar (and always welcoming) voice of John Watson who is standing in archway with Hamish propped on his left hip. He looks the same as ever, but of course with that lovely addition of a moustache (I would've thought Mary would've made him shave that off by now). A huge relief comes over me; maybe John can talk Sherlock out of this random meltdown.

"Jawn here!" Hamish happily declares before sticking his thumb in his mouth.

"Yes, and at the right moment," Sherlock says with a sort of icy sting to his voice, "I have a headache."

"God forbid the world's only consulting detective gets a headache," John teases with a roll of his eyes, "I thought you could at least treat that yourself with out my help."

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and storms toward the living room. John looks at me and mouths 'Is everything okay?' I reply with a dismissive shake my head as I run a hand through my greasy hair. And I thought today was going to be one of his good days.

Already realizing that Sherlock is having one of his moments, John sets Hamish down and cautiously walks toward his best friend: "Seriously, Sherlock, how are you feeling today? Is everything okay?"

"Honestly, John, you just walked in the door. Spare me a few moments of your unnecessary mollycoddling!" Sherlock snaps, flaring his arms about, "I am fine! Can't you and Elfie see that I am perfectly fine? One bad night does not mean that I am going insane or getting back into drugs! I'm not insane! I am perfectly fine so just leave me the hell alone! Both of you!"

With that, Sherlock storms off down to the hall. The bedroom door slams shut and I immediately let out a heavy sigh that I wasn't aware I had been holding in. I can't take much more of this: the constant mood swings, the shouting, the anger. That's not my Sherlock and all I want is to get him back.

"Mummy," Hamish whimpers, griping onto my legs. I look down at him and my heart starts to break at the sight of those sea foam eyes filling up with tears.

"Oh sweat heart," I coo, scooping the little boy up into my arms, "It's okay. Don't cry, honey. Daddy's alright." Hamish sniffles quietly as he cuddles up as close to me as he can. I place a kiss on the top of messy mop of curls and then finally look at John; "You…you didn't need to see that." I manage to say in the strongest voice I can muster at the moment.

"No, no, I did." John says, keeping his eyes focused on hall, "The nightmares are back in full force than?"

"Yes, but last night was the worst," I reply, "The cold sweats, the shaking, all of it…John, is-Please tell me there is something you can do."

He finally looks at me and sighs: "You know that I'll always try."

A weak smile grows across my face and I wrap my free arm around him for a hug: "That's all I can ask of you, John."


	3. Chapter 3: Nothing is Wrong

_**All right, here it is: Sherlock's POV. **_

_**Please comment and let me know what you guys think. It is always appreciated.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 3: Nothing is Wrong_

I'm fine.

Yes, I'm perfectly fine.

There is nothing to worry or to make such a fuss about.

I am fine.

Pacing back and fourth at the foot of the bed, I clench my unruly curls in my hands and try my best to keep my mind off the issue at hand: My illness…that is if I even have one. Yes, I accept that my recent relapse has affected my mind but not to the point where I can no longer take care of myself. And yes, I realize that I haven't been sleeping that well for the past week or so, but that's not important. My body is just transport, I've said that time and time again. I don't need John or Elfie or anyone for that matter to hang over me and treat me like a child; I can fix this myself, they only just need to let me.

It's this gnawing headache that's making me so agitated right now. It is absolutely killing me; it feels like a rock is pounding against my skull and never giving me a moment's peace to think. Pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, I sit down on the edge of the bed and groan. I want to scream and tell this pain to stop, but I know that would be stupid and utterly useless.

'_Get it together, Holmes,'_ I tell myself, _'Control yourself! Think; what is causing this headache?' _I lie down on my back, swinging my long legs up onto the bed, and rest my hands under my chin. _'Think, Holmes, think! That will keep your mind off of all this. Find an explanation; you're good at that.'_ With a heavy exhale, I quickly open the doors of my mind palace and venture through to find a proper solution:

Headache: _Noun._

-A continuous pain in the head, caused by dilation of cerebral arteries, muscle contraction, insufficient oxygen in the cerebral blood, reaction to drugs, etc. Medical name: cephalalgia.

-Common type of headache: Migraine.

Yes, Migraine. I have a migraine, but why?

Clearly this is a side affect, but of what?

Withdrawal: no, I'm past that stage of recovery but then again the need for a fix is still in my system. It has been ever sense I was young, ever sense I started that dreadful habit of poisoning my body with those substances. But it felt good; such a relief from the ever busy, ever dull world around me. No, no, it was stupid.

'_Focus Holmes; back to the question at hand. Your headache; what is causing your headache?'_

Could it be a result for the lack of sleep I've been getting: Yes, of course, most likely the answer. I can't even remember the last time I properly slept an entire night. Then again, I never had a proper sleep schedule before. Then again, I wasn't recovering from a morphine/cocaine addiction.

Perhaps Elfie brought this on. She was rather upset with me and…No, absolutely not! That cannot be; she could never cause me pain, especially pain such as this. How could she? She is perfect, a true light in my dark life, my better half, the only one who makes me human.

She is my darling, darling girl.

Breaking away from solving the tedious case of my headache for the moment, I venture into the room of my mind that is strictly for Elfie. A smile grows across my face as thoughts of my lovely wife fill my brain: Every moment we've spent together, every important event in our relationship, the sound of her voice saying my name. As I hum contently to myself, I notice my breathing becoming more relaxed and very slowly the throbbing pain in my skull begins to drift away. Yes, that's it, that's what I needed. I needed her. I always need her.

I usually don't let people leave such an impact on my mind, but Elfie Marie Stegerson (now Holmes) has always been the exception. Well, too an extent so has John, but that is completely different. Elfie has had a hold on me from the moment I set eyes on her, both mentally and emotionally. After meeting her at the museum, I couldn't get her image out of my head: her emerald eyes, her long dark hair that ran down over her shoulders, that angelic voice and smile. A true beauty; one by the likes I had never seen before.

Our first conversation plays back and I can still feel that first throbbing hit of sentiment pierce my chest:

"_American. Southern California by the sounds of it: Los Angeles County?"_

"_Orange, actually, but I'm impressed. How did you know?"_

"_The way you say the words 'huh' and 'oh'. It's very common in that region."_

"_You know a lot about Southern California than?" _

"_I know a lot about everything." _

"_Is-is that so. Well then, what do you need me for?"_

"_Beg pardon?"_

"_Well, I mean, uh, if you know so much about everything, why do you need a historian? Not that I doubt your knowledge or intellect or anything. You seem like a very smart individual. I'm just saying…uh…never mind."_

"_No need to apologize, Ms. Stegerson, I get that response a lot."_

I chuckle at the memory; she was so nervous and so was I. She caught me off guard and changed me all in just those first few moments together. Elfie put my life on a different track, one that I never thought to venture down. I never saw myself settling down with a family and yet here I am: a father and husband. It's all because of this woman, this utterly perfect woman. God, perhaps she was right. Perhaps, I am truly sentimental. How…dull.

God, I'm such an idiot to have shouted at her and in front of Hamish too! He wasn't supposed to see me like that; he was never to see me like that. Now he must feel awful and I…I've let him down. I've let my family down. The two people that matter the most to me are now hurt because of me. This is why I've never had emotional connections with anyone: I always end up ruining it.

It's not their fault that I'm unwell. It's my own bloody fault that I know to be a fact. Elfie must be furious with me though for shouting in front of Hamish-no, not furious, just upset. She could never bring herself to be completely furious with me even though by all means she should be. For God's sake, she forgave me after leaving her to raise a child all on her own for three years. She seemed as if she was about to cry when I left the room. I've made her cry far too many times during our relationship and yet she continues to stay with me.

Elfie Marie is the one mystery I've never been able to solve.

She's far too good for me.

As guilt begins to flood my thoughts, I quickly shut down my mind palace and return to reality. Fatigue is starting to take me over and it seems like too much effort to even open my eyes. I bring my legs in close to my body and rest my chin on my boney knees. The headache is gone, but now I'm nauseous and dizzy…and warm. Warm is a new symptom; most likely another side effect do to my lack of rest. A chill runs up my spine and I have to gulp down the sick I feel coming up my throat.

There is a sort of comforting darkness that is coming over me: It's sleep. Yes, definitely sleep trying to overtake me. I should give in, but sleep is just so dull. If I fall asleep, then an entire day in which I could be performing experiments and or solving a case for Lestrade would be wasted. Not to mention that face would come back, the one that haunts my nightmares.

Moriarty.

As if it knew that I was thinking about it, that face instantly appears in my mind, almost as if it is in the room with me. It's smiling wickedly at me as if to taunt me in my current unhealthy state. It's him. It's Moriarty. I try to fight him off but I'm immobile. Why am I immobile? My limbs are as heavy as stone and all I can do is moan while he, that man, leans over me to hiss into my ear:

"Why so sleepy, Sherlock? Is something the matter?"

I bury my face in my pillow and moan as an attempt to shove out the hallucination. _'It's not real, Holmes.'_ I tell myself, _'you saw him die. He killed himself right in front of you. Just calm down.'_

"Yoo hoo, Sherly!" he pesters as he ruffles my hair, "Wakey, wakey. It's no fun if you're just going to sleep your life away."

"Go away," I groan, "Go away."

"That's a bit hard to do when I'm not actually here."

"Then just leave me alone."

"Aww, buck up Sherlock," he taunts in that sickening voice, "Didn't you know you could never get rid of me for good? You tried, I know, what with the cocaine and the morphine. But to tell you the truth, all the drugs in the world couldn't break us apart. You're me, don't you remember? You said it yourself, genius."

"Leave. Me. Alone." I cry, surprising myself with how desperate I sound right now.

"What part of you can't get rid of me aren't you getting?" He replies

"Go, please," I beg, curling in on myself even tighter, "just go."

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice says and, suddenly, there is a firm hand holding onto my shoulder and gently shaking me, "Come on, mate, wake up."

John. Yes, John is here. Good. I need John right now. 

I let out an agonizing groan and slowly open my eyes. Moriarty is gone…of course he is, he wasn't real. Just a figment of my sleep deprived mind. The nausea has died down but I still feel warm and dizzy. But that doesn't matter now that John is here. John will fix it, he always does. He knows what's best for me even when I myself don't know. Is that what having a best friend is? I'll have to think about that at another time.

The good doctor is leaning over me with a hand gently pressed against my sweaty forehead, checking my temperature and doing his always-annoying, yet helpful, job of taking care of me. He is concerned, I can tell by his frown and creased forehead. Simple deduction really, any idiot could see that John is upset…because of me. Another person I've managed to hurt today and it's not even noon. Well done, Holmes. Well done indeed.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" he says, cupping the left side of my face with his hand, "Are you awake?"

"John," I manage to mumble, gently pushing his hand aside, "'m fine."  
"Yeah, sure, you just passed out because you were bored." John replies, giving me a stern look.

I furrow my brow in confusion. Passed out? No, no, I just closed my eyes for a few moments to think. I was asleep for not even a full five minutes before John walked in. Confused, I raise my head and look at the clock on the bedside table. It reads a quarter till one. Odd, that must be wrong. I came in here at 11 and then I lay down to…oh.

"You don't remember falling asleep do you?" John asks, folding his arms across his chest.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep." I attempt to explain, sitting up fully, "I was just thinking. Must have dozed off when I lied down."

"You didn't just doze off, Sherlock, you passed out. I'm not exaggerating. I came in here to talk about why you were shouting and I find you curled up, fast asleep, like a baby."

"I had a headache so I lied down for a bit." I explain, "I sort of got lost in my thoughts after that and…well, I blacked out."

"That's what happens when you haven't slept properly for a week," John says, "Not to mention your fever."

"I don't have a fever."  
"You have a small one and don't deny it because I know you know."

I roll my eyes and run a hand through my curls. A mild fever would explain the symptoms, but I can't be getting sick. I have work to do. "Where's Elfie?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"She took Hamish to the park," John replies, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, "After your little shout, I told her that it would be best to go get some fresh air and that I'd call her once you had gotten your head back on your shoulders. That was almost two hours ago so they should be back soon. You were out for a good long while, Sherlock; for a minute there, I thought I was going to have to call for an ambulance."

"Mmm," I grunt in reply, ignoring John's last statement. Elfie's gone to the park, which she couldn't be at the flat because I had made her so upset. Damn it.

"She's not mad at you," John says as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, "nor is Hamish. They just-they're worried about you, that's all."

"I must have given Hamish quite a fright, shouting like that." I say, pulling my legs in close to my chest again, "It was stupid. I…I don't know what came over me."

"You were agitated and your sick," John answers rather matter of factly, "As much as you want to ignore it, Sherlock, you are ill. This lack of sleep isn't doing any good for your immune system and neither is pushing aside the very fact that you're not healthy."

"I know that I'm not well, John. I'm not an idiot." I reply, "But I…"

"Can fix it yourself, yes I know, you've told me." John finishes for me, "The truth is, though, you can't, not without medical help at least."

I grumble in annoyance and just rest my forehead against my knees. He's right, unfortunately; John is always right: "What…what have you got for me today then?" I ask, "Pills? You do of course realize that given more medication to a recovering drug addict is not the brightest of ideas."  
"Yes, but Sherlock I want to talk to you about this first." John says, snapping into his medical professional mode, "I can't just keep prescribing you tablets to keep these mood swings at bay."

"Why not? You are a doctor are you not?"  
"Yes, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm saying that…well, if you were open to it, which I know that you normally wouldn't be, but…my therapist could squeeze you in for a consultation."

I immediately snap my head up at this comment and stare at John in shock. "Therapy? You want me to go to a therapist? Me?" I say in disbelief, "Absolutely not."

"Why not?" he asks, "Ella's a good person, Sherlock, and someone I know that can help you move past whatever it is that keeps you awake at night."

"You know what keeps me up, John; I've told you. Why should I tell a complete stranger about it as well?"

"Because she can help."

"Well, I don't want her help."

"Sherlock…"  
"Are you going to give me my pills or not?"

John sighs heavily and just shakes his head: "Yeah, yeah, they're in my bag. Give me a minute." He then stands up and heads back out of the bedroom. I know that I've just upset him even more than I already have, but I am not going to therapy. There is no one in the world, not even Elfie, who could get me to go.

It's not that I'm opposed to the field or to any therapist. It's only that…I saw far too many therapists as a child that I don't wish to revisit those places ever again. My father thought that I was mentally challenged and needed some guidance on how to function properly in the real world. To him, I was not a genius. I was a default, a trouble…a freak. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he wasn't. I'll never know, nor do I wish too. The only useful thing I learned from that man was how not to raise a son and how not to be a husband. I could never do to Hamish what he did to me nor could I betray Elfie as he betrayed my mother.

I love my family.

They're all I have left in this world.

Pushing my ugly past behind me, I stretch out my legs and get out of bed. The room spins for a bit as soon as my feet hit the floor, but I quickly find my balance. Wobbling a bit, I make my way to the open door; "John!" I call down the hall, "Have you got them yet? It is taking you ages."

As soon as I reach the doorway, my eyes lock onto those of my beautiful wife. A surge of relief fills my body; deep down, I thought she wouldn't be coming back. There is an uncomfortable tension between us and, suddenly, I feel very warm again. She looks sad; of course she's sad, I made her sad. Idiot.

"Your up." she says, looking down at her feet.

"Yes, I…John said that I passed out." I reply, sheepishly, "I didn't mean too, really, I just, um…Apparently, I have a fever."

Stupid. That wasn't the right thing to say.

"Oh," she replies, "then maybe I should let you get back to sleep."

"No, no, no, I'm fine." I quickly spit out, gently taking hold of her hand, "Please don't go."

Elfie looks at our hands and then up at me. A small smile appears on her lips and I let out a deep breath that I wasn't aware I was holding. In despite need for her comfort, I pull her in close and wrap my arms around her in a warm embrace. She returns the gesture and places a soft kiss on my cheek.

"Is this you trying to apologize?" she asks, nuzzling her head under my chin, "If so, then I'll take it."

"I…I am sorry," I say, running my hands through her hair, "I didn't mean to shout at you. I shouldn't have shouted at you; it's not your fault that I'm…the way that I now am. I shouldn't have told you to leave me alone. God knows that if you leave me it will be the death of me."

"Sherlock don't talk like that," she says, holding onto me a bit tighter, "and I'm not going anywhere. I…I only wish that you could see that I want to help you."

"I do, my darling, I truly do."

"Then let me help you."

Elfie lifts her head and we lock eyes in a comforting gaze. She reaches up and softly strokes the side of my cheek with her hand. Gently, I place a kiss on the heel of her palm.

"Staying by my side is helping me," I finally say, taking both her hands into my own, "If you wish to know what is going on in my mind…then I will do my best to let you in. But know that I have been withholding this information from you because I care for you. I do not want to see the woman that I love fall into despair over my personal faults. You are my world, Elfie Marie, you and Hamish. My only wish is that the two of you never leave me."

"We're not going anywhere," she replies, nuzzling her forehead against mine, "Just as long as you don't push us away. I love you Sherlock Holmes."

Giving into my emotions, I close my eyes and press my lips against hers in a soft kiss. She kisses me back and it seems as if all our problems have melted away. How does she manage to do that? She clears all the turmoil and chaos of my non-stop brain with just a kiss. It is fascinating and at the same time, immensely comforting. She is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

"You should rest, love," Elfie says when we finally part, "You do feel a bit warm to the touch."

"Will you join me?" I ask, massaging her knuckles, "Bring Hamish in as well…that is, of course, if he wants to see me."

"Of course he does. He's your son."  
"I frightened him." I state

"Yes, but he's alright. Don't worry." She places a kiss on my cheek then backs away: "You go lay down while I get Hamish. I'm going to talk with John for a bit but I'll be in afterwards to join you."

I smile meekly as I watch my wife exit down the hall. I love this woman so much that it is almost unnatural. She has a hold on me that no one else can have. My heart belongs to her and our son; that is what truly matters to me.

Yawning, I turn back around and climb back into bed. The mattress and pillow and blankets seem much more inviting now then they did moments ago. As I lay back and rest my head on the pillow, I hear the quick pitter-patter of feet running toward the bedroom. Moments later, Hamish appears in the doorway. He sees me and gives me a tiny wave.

"Well, come on then," I coax, opening my arms to the boy, "you can take your afternoon sleep in here if you like." He quickly sticks his thumb in his mouth then rushes over to me, a large smile across his face. I scoop him up into my arms and lay back down with Hamish resting comfortably on my chest.

"You still mad?" he mumbles, still not removing his thumb.

"No, Hamish, I'm not mad." I reply, stroking his back, "I'm sorry if I scared you, young man."

"I no scared. I brave." My son proudly declares.

"Yes, I know you are." I reply, kissing the top of his head, "and I love you."

"I love you too."  
I close my eyes and start to peacefully drift off to sleep. The first time I have done so in a very long time.


	4. Chapter 4: Walk With Me

_**Sorry for the late update but here is a long chapter for you all. Back to Elfie's POV and a bit of a cliffhanger. Enjoy!**_

_**Thanks as always for the love and support. Keep on reviewing; it really helps!**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 4: Walk With Me_

After making sure that Hamish got down the hall without tripping (honestly that boy is just full of energy), I make my way to the kitchen where John is making a fresh pot of tea. My mind is such a blur with so many different and confusing thoughts right now. When Hamish and I were out, I came up with what I was going to say to Sherlock when we got back. I was going to tell him that his pride is getting the worst of him and that he needs to accept help, either professionally or just from John and I. However, when Sherlock talked to me right now, my words escaped me.

I just don't understand it; Sherlock says that he knows what's wrong and what he has to do fix it, but he just won't let me in. He says that he needs me by his side, but it isn't easy when I don't know what I can do to help him. But I'm not going anywhere and I meant that. He's my husband and I love him; I will stay. I have to stay.

"You okay?" John asks as I take a seat on one of the stools by the counter.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah I'm fine." I reply, breaking out of my thoughts for a moment, "Just…It's been a rough morning to say the least."

"Do you want to get some air?" he offers, "I can watch Hamish for a bit."

"No, no, it's fine." I say, "I can't keep taking walks to clear my head you know; I have to be a grown up and deal with my problems. Besides, you've got your own life to lead and can't keep coming to my aide."

"Sure I can. That's what friends do for each other." He points out, pouring a couple of cups of tea, "I know for a fact that if either Mary or I were having trouble, you and Sherlock would be there for us. He takes a seat in front of me and hands me one; "Breathe," he says, "you'll get through this."

"Thank you," I reply, taking the cup in my hands, "How's Mary?"

"Good, she's really good." He replies, "Getting a bit of those pre-wedding jitters, I think. She keeps second-guessing every decision: the color of the flowers, your bridesmaid's dress, and things like that."

"Well, tell her that I enjoy the purple dress." I say, "She shouldn't worry about it. If you remember the last wedding I was involved in I almost had to wear a bright pink dress that looked like it was made for a Barbie doll."

"I thought you liked that dress. You did keep it after all."

"Yeah, but still. Any who, what else? Have you guys picked a venue?

"I think we're going with the traditional church wedding. Mary's got a big family and turns out we have a lot of people we want to be there. She's excited, real excited."

"And are you?" I ask with a giggle, "Have you wrapped your head around the fact that in just a few weeks you're going to be a husband, John? It's so exciting."

"You're telling me," he replies with a bashful grin, "I…I never thought I'd get so lucky and find someone like Mary. She's my better half, Fee, truly. I don't know how I got along without her all this time. God, that's a stupid thing to say."

"People say crazy things and act all weird like that when they're in love." I playfully point out, "You remember how Sherlock was when he and I were married; never letting me out of his arms, not thinking about a case and showing all sorts of emotion."

I start to smile at the memory of my wedding day. That seems like so long ago and things were simpler back then. Sherlock looked so handsome in that black suit with his curls pulled back away from his face…and smiling. He never smiles and yet that day it seemed as if he couldn't stop and nor could I. We were so happy to be married and so glad for everything that would come with being husband and wife. Then, unfortunately, after just a month of 'wedded bliss' our lives started to drastically change. That's when that Moriarty mess started which lead to Sherlock's 'death', which then leads to…well, where we are now.

Noticing my smile fade, John places a comforting hand on my shoulder: "You know you can talk to me," he says with a brotherly smirk, "Just because your husband keeps everything all bottled in, doesn't mean you have to too."

I open my mouth to protest but John just gives me that look. The look that clearly means _'I know you want to talk about this, so talk.'_ I sigh heavily and look toward the hallway: "Sherlock said he had a small fever?" I finally say.

"A small one, yeah, but nothing to fret over." John assures me, "A day of rest and then he'll be right as rain."

"Fantastic, that's just what we need." I say with a roll of my eyes, "Another reason for him to be so agitated all the time. I know that sounds bitter; I don't mean it to be. I thought things were getting better with Sherlock, but...I just hate seeing Sherlock like this. Frankly, I don't know how much more of it I can take. God, I don't know. It's just so frustrating."

"I'm sorry, Fee. I tried to talk to him about these mood swings and even suggested therapy, but…well, you know how he is."

"I'm surprised he didn't bite your head off when you mentioned the idea. I knew it was risky of me to ask you about getting Sherlock involved in therapy and, to be honest, I knew he wouldn't go for it. That seems like a last resort for him."

"Hey, it's not for everyone," John says, trying to be optimistic, "and let's me realistic: Sherlock talking about his feelings with a stranger will happen the day pigs fly."

"Yeah, I know," I sheepishly reply, "It was stupid of me to bring it up."

"Hey," John goes on, taking my hand into his, "You were only just thinking of ways to help the man you love; there's no shame in that. If there's anything more I can do to help you with that, please, don't hesitate to ask."

I small smile grows across my face and nod: "Thank you John, but I think you've done all you can-More than that actually. But I think you and I need to let Sherlock realize that he can't do this alone. He's just got to let go of his pride you know?"

"You and I both know that's never going to happen."

I chuckle slightly and give his hand a squeeze: "You're right. How are you always right, John?"

"I don't know," he says with a shrug, "Years of practice?"

I chuckle again then lean in to give John a hug. During all this time we've known each other, John has always been the best friend anyone could ever ask for. He's the brother I never had and the support system both Sherlock and I need. John Watson is one of a kind and Ms. Mary Morstan is the luckiest woman alive to have him.

"Come on now," John says as we part, "You're going to be alright. Just breathe."

I nod and rub my face in my hands: "I know, I know." I reply.

"Life will get back to normal," John goes on, "maybe Sherlock just needs to get out of the house for a bit. Has he taken a new case?"

"No, not yet." I reply, "You know how picky he can be."

"I'm not picky. I only take on cases that are worth my time."

John and I both turn to see Sherlock standing in the kitchen archway, hands stuffed in his dark jean pockets and his grey t-shirt draped over his skinny torso. He looks so laid back and, well, not like him, but not in a bad way. To be honest, Sherlock looks quite handsome; not at all like the sick man I saw no more than 15 minutes ago.

"You decided to get dressed," John says, breaking the awkward silence.

"It is the afternoon, John." My husband replies, "The least I could was put on some real clothes."

"Feeling better then?" John asks

"You never brought me my medicine." Sherlock counters, "I came out here to tell you I no longer need it."

"Oh, well, then that's good...right?"

Sherlock grunts and runs a hand through his messy curls: "Fever's down, but of course you'll want to check that, and my migraine's gone." He replies, "I couldn't fall back asleep. I did for a few moments but, well, it was pointless." His gaze then turns to me and I notice that he looks…sad. Why? If he's feeling better, then he should be...wait. A light bulb suddenly turns on in my mind.

"You heard?" I ask, referring to the conversation John and I just had.

"All of it," Sherlock replies rather matter of factly, "and I do wish the both of you would have discussed the matter with me first."

"Which matter?" John asks.

"The matter of sending me to a therapist."

There is an awkward silence between the three of us. John and I look down at the floor in shame; Sherlock's right, we should have talked to him about it first instead of just dropping the matter on him out of nowhere. Therapy is a big deal and I should have known the very mention of it wouldn't go over well with him.

"It was all my idea." I finally say, getting up and going to his side, "I'm worried about you, but you already know that. I thought that I was helping and going behind your back would be the only way to approach you with the idea. It sounds stupid now, and…and frankly, it was. I just wanted to help. It's nothing angst you, love, please know that."

Sherlock nods and looks away for a moment. I can see the wheels turning in his brain as if he were thinking of some big monologue to say to me response. To my surprise though, Sherlock straightens up and looks back at John: "Hamish is having his afternoon sleep in the bedroom," he says, motioning his head toward the hallway, "watch over him for us? I need to be alone with my wife a bit."

"Sure, of course." John replies with a nod, "Take your time. I'll just call Mary and let her know what I'm up to." He then takes out his mobile and steps out of the room to make the call.

Sherlock then looks to me with the softest gaze and tucks a stray hair back behind my ear: "I would like to take a walk. Just around the block or so; perhaps grab some coffee." he says in a voice that he has saved for when he is being sweet with me, "I would very much like your company, darling. Would…would you care to join me?"

"Yeah," I reply, feeling my cheeks turn a slight shade of pink, "always."

Sherlock chuckles slightly and takes my hand into his. He studies our intertwined fingers for a moment then gently pulls me in for an embrace. I graciously accept it and wrap my arms around Sherlock's small waist. What has brought on this sudden mood change? It's…nice, to say the least.

"I love you," he whispers, kissing the top of my head.

"I love you too," I reply. I then raise my head and meet his lips for a soft kiss. Sherlock then heads over to the coat rack and grabs both his signature coat and my small blue one. He helps me into mine then dawns his own. I slip on some shoes then take Sherlock's hand back into mine.

"I have my phone," I call out to John as we head down the stairs, "Text me if any-"

"Elfie, this isn't the first time John's looked after Hamish," Sherlock interrupts, gently pulling me along, "They'll be fine."

I am about to protest but I stop myself, not wanting to ruin this mood Sherlock's in right now. He's rarely like this anymore: sweet, loving, caring. To be honest, I think the last time he asked me go on a walk with him was when we were still dating, back when he'd walk me home from work. Those were the times when we could be completely honest with one another and it, truly, was some of the best times we had as boyfriend and girlfriend. I don't know why we stopped those walks after we were married. I've missed them, frankly.

We step out into the nippy, London air and I move as close to Sherlock as I possibly can: "Still not use to London weather, are we my darling." Sherlock teases as we start down the street toward the park.

"I don't think I ever will be," I say, "That is the one thing I miss about California: heat."

Sherlock laughs then kisses my cheek: "Do you ever truly miss it?" he asks, giving my hand a soft squeeze, "America, I mean."

"No, not really." I reply, "I mean, I never really had a life worth missing over there. There was always just my mom and I. You, of course, know that we never got along so leaving her wasn't as hard as some people may think. It wasn't until I moved out here that I began to live the life I really wanted, start being the woman I've always wanted to be."

"A respected historian?"

"Not just another member of the crowd."

"Oh my darling, darling girl," my husband says with a proud smile, "you could never just be a simple, everyday woman. Haven't I made you realize after all this time that you are unlike any other?"

"Only because I met you," I counter point, "Honestly, Sherlock, if it weren't for you I don't think I ever would have found my courage or my self-confidence. You've made me who I am."

"I can't take all the credit; you have found most of that all on our own."  
I blush and rise up on my tiptoes so that I can plant a kiss on his cheek: "You flatter me, Mr. Holmes." I tease.

"That was my intention, Mrs. Holmes." He replies in a soft whisper before bringing his lips to kiss the side of my neck. Good Lord who is this man and what has he done with my husband?

"Okay, what is this?" I ask with a smile, "What's the real reason behind this sweetness and sentiment?"

Sherlock chuckles slightly and wraps his arm around my shoulders: "Can't a man spend a few moments walking and chatting with his wife?" he asks, pulling me in close, "I haven't been myself lately Elfie, and granted that this too is not my normal behavior, but allow me this one rare occasion of sentiment. You deserve it."

"Deserve it?" I ask, wrapping an arm around his waist, "How do you mean?"

"I mean that I've put you through far too much and I don't show my appreciation as often as I should." He replies, "I love you; don't ever forget that."

"I never will," I say, holding his hand in place on my shoulder, "I promise."

We smile at one another, exchange a quick peck on the lips, and then quicken our pace a bit, continuing to chat away about nothing in particular, just like we use too. There is a spark in his voice that I haven't heard in far too long and it warms my heart. He's got that look in his eyes that make them shine all the more brighter and he's acting very much like the man that came into my office all those years ago. It's almost as if Sherlock is back to being his old self again: before Moriarty, before that fall at St. Barts, before the drugs and depression. No, this isn't that man I have seen these past few nights.

This is the man I married.

This is my Sherlock Holmes.

There is a small coffee shop a few blocks away and to my surprise, Sherlock wants to stop for drinks. I agree and soon after getting our coffees (one black, two sugars and the other just black) we head toward the park that Hamish and I were just at not too long ago.

"This is a bit too public for you," I mention as we walk past a rather rambunctious group of children running about, "I thought you hated being near so many people."  
"That's not entirely true." Sherlock replies, "I hate being around people who will immediately recognize me, Elfie. Here, parents are too focused on their children, others are just enjoying the day and not giving a toss for what's happening around them; the park is almost like the perfect place to blend in, wouldn't you agree?"  
"I guess so, if you put it that way." I say, taking a sip of my drink, "Never took you for someone who'd come to the park though."

"I used to before we met, actually." Sherlock points out, "I would come here and just watch the world around me, study people as is such my way. Were do you think I practiced my skills for deduction, darling? I stopped coming because of my so-called public image. People would see me on the bench and say 'Oh look it's the detective from the web' as if I were something on display. Quite distracting and frankly it's rather annoying."

I chuckle and give his hand a loving squeeze. Truth be told, I don't think anyone would recognize Sherlock right now. He's dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans and looks very much relaxed and calm, not to mention he's wearing his wedding ring. The Sherlock people see in the papers and on television is well dressed and much more uptight. I think people may only recognize him by his coat, but even that's a sort of long jump.

My husband and I head over to a small bench that's out of the way from the general public and take a seat. We stop chatting for a bit and that is perfectly fine. We are just quietly sitting, sipping our coffees and holding hands, sort of like any other married couple may do. I even go as far as to rest my head on his shoulder to which he responds to by kissing my forehead. After a few moments of peaceful silence, Sherlock takes in a sharp breath then speaks:

"I've never told you about my family, have I?" he asks, his voice low and monotone.

"Um, no not really." I reply confused as what has brought on this topic, "I mean, you never seemed like you wanted to talk about it so I never asked."

"And you were never curious?" he asks, looking out into the distance

"Well, yeah." I admit, "I mean, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't want to know about the in-laws I've never met or why you never talk about them. But I respect that you-"

"I never talk about them because they never wanted me."

Almost dropping my coffee, I quickly snap my head up to look at Sherlock with a mixture of surprise and confusion on my face; "What?" I ask, unable to really formulate any thing else to say.

Sherlock takes in another deep breath and looks down at his coffee cup: "My-my father, he wasn't what one would call a caring figure for me to look up too." he goes on with an icy tone to his voice, "Mycroft was always his favorite: he is 'more suitable for the modern world' in my father's eyes. He always praised Mycroft's school efforts and made sure that my brother was to receive the best in everything. Me, on the other hand, I was simply just that second child that was never supposed to come to be. To my father, I was an unexpected responsibility, a burden…a mistake."

I give Sherlock's hand a comforting squeeze and move in a bit closer to him. Even though he hasn't looked up at me, I can see all of the pent up hurt of his past just waiting to be let out. He never talks about his childhood, or his teenage years; John and I have only heard bits and pieces of it from Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson. I always assumed that Sherlock just never wanted to talk about it and so I respected that. But now, seeing this hurt and hearing this news, makes me think that there is so much more the story.

"Sherlock," I cautiously say, "you…you don't have to-"

"Yes, I do." He quickly replies, looking ahead, "You have to know why I am the way that I am and why I've made so many idiotic mistakes. I owe it to you."

I bite down on my lower lip and gently squeeze his hand again, wordlessly telling him that I'm here and ready to listen to what he has to say.

"I wasn't supposed to be born," Sherlock goes on after a long pause, "My father didn't even want children to begin with, in fact. He married my mother only because he felt a sort of duty to do so. She was pregnant with Mycroft when they were wed; I'm not entirely sure how long they were even together before that happened. There was no ceremony, just basic, courthouse nuptials. My mother wasn't going to give the baby up at any cost and my father-well Father hated to loose anything so he just gave in. Luckily, Mycroft was everything he had hoped for in a child."

"He sounds like a very demanding man, your father." I say, quietly cursing the in-law I never (and hopefully never have to) met.

"To say the least," Sherlock dryly replies, "which was part of the reason as to why, I think, he disliked me so much. I was an accident, not part of his life plan. He liked to be in control and follow a specific life itinerary. I was conceived at an inconvenient time, I suppose. Father almost put me up for adoption, claiming that my mother could not raise both a 6 year old and a newborn. My mother didn't care, though, and so when I was born she fought to keep me.

As I got older and realized my ability to take in such keen details about everything, my father's disappointment in me only grew. He claimed that there was something mentally wrong with me and that I should have gone to a home so that I wouldn't trouble the family with my...illness as he put it. He sent me to my first therapist a few weeks after I turned seven. I was prescribed all sorts of medication: pills for ADHD, pills for depression, and so many other medications that I even lost count.

"Since when is being a genius an illness," I say letting out a shocked breath, "How could a person treat their own child like that? Did you even understand what he was doing to you?"

"He was tiring to get rid of me, I understood that much." Sherlock replies in a dark tone, "He hated what I could do and shunned me for it. I was constantly sick due to all the medicine and that only made things worse. I was weak in my father's eyes: damaged and weak. I often had nightmares back then too and I there was no one that would comfort me afterward. Well, no one except my mother. She understood me.

Mother was the only one who encouraged my fast paced abilities early on in my life. She showed me how to hone my senses and keep my eyes open and pay attention to the smallest of details. I owe my deduction skills to her, really. You two would've gotten along, I think. She was very bright and strong-willed. She…she was an amazing woman."

Sherlock stops for a moment and closes his eyes. I begin to see a single trace of a tear roll down his cheek as he leans back and looks up at the sky. I've never heard him speak of anyone like that before other then maybe Mrs. Hudson; He had such respect, such love and yet a trace of hurt in his voice. "Did…did something happen to her?" I cautiously ask and Sherlock's face becomes emotionless.

"She left. I was thirteen." He states rather matter of factly, "My father cheated on her multiple times with multiple partners over the course of their time together and Mother just couldn't take it anymore. Mycroft had gone back to University a day or so after my birthday and then Mother left without even saying a word to father or me. It was a sort of affirmation to me that I wasn't truly loved by her. When she left, I realized that I wasn't wanted by anyone in that house.

That's when it all began for me: my downward spiral. I started acting out around the house, skipping school, things like that. My father was furious and sent me back to therapy, hoping that I could be 'cured'. There were more pills and even stranger treatments such as hypnotherapy to release some subconscious turmoil or something along that line I don't quite remember.

I do remember that it was much more intense then when I was a child and…and I couldn't take it. I didn't like a stranger poking about my mind without me knowing or controlling it. I only took the pills because I could get high if I took enough. You could say that is were the drug addiction began."

"How long did that go on?" I ask, feeling my heart grow heavy with each addition to this story.

"Until my first year at University." He said, "After that, I left."

"Left therapy?"

"Left that life. I ran away to the country where my grandparents lived in hopes to find my mother there but…she wasn't. My grandparents took me in though and tried to get my life back on some sort of track; they even contacted Mycroft to see if he could be of any assistance. He was the one who put me on my first real case, actually. That of course lead me to London and…well, I think you know how that all turned out.

My father died when I was in my mid-twenties and I never went back to my father's house nor have I ever attempted to make contact with my family. Mycroft occasionally fills me in on such affairs: my grandparents' passing, family gatherings and matters such as those. I am told that he's been in contact with my mother and that she's asked about me but…but I don't care anymore. My only connection to the Holmes family is the name and that is all. I don't wish to make it anything more."

Sherlock opens his eyes and finally turns to look at me with all the sadness in the world: "So you see now, Elfie, why I have been shutting you out. I keep my problems to myself because I have never known what it's like to trust anyone with them. I'm opposed to therapy because I know for a fact that it will do me no good. My past is something I am not proud of and never wish revisit for as long as I live. However, my recent relapse has triggered some of my old ways and thus old memories have begun to resurface.

I do apologize that I never told you any of this before and I only hope that you don't think any less of me because of it. When we were married, I promised myself that I would respect you and love you with all of my being, yet somehow I couldn't bring myself to tell you about all of this until today. So please, my darling, darling girl, understand that I am not mad at you for trying to help me. My demons are, in fact, my demons and I don't want them to burden those around me."

I stare at him and am at a complete loss for words. My heart aches for him, but I don't pity him. No, I feel sad and at the same time, angry. In front of me sits a man who I have known to be the strongest, brightest and most impressive being in all of London and now I know that it he had to take a dark road to get there. Inside, Sherlock is a broken child who never knew what it was fully like to be accepted for who he was. He was an outcast since he was young and all because his father, a man who should have guided him, left him out for nothing.

I don't care if that was all in the past, it's not right.

Feeling the need to fill the gap between us, I set my coffee down and wrap my arms around Sherlock's thin frame, holding him close in a warm embrace. He holds me back and rubs his hands up and down my back, pressing his lips against the top of my head.

"You're not a burden to me, Sherlock," I manage to say without starting to cry, "I love you and always will. I am here to help you in anyway you need me to."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He only holds me a bit tighter and kisses the top of my head again. I think that he through talking for today; it must have taken a lot out of him to tell me all of this and I don't blame him if he feels drained. I'm just glad that I now have a bit more understanding as to why my husband can be so standoffish. It's not that he's mean or anti-social or anything like that; it's his way of defending himself from anymore hurt and neglect. He's experienced far too much, far more than anyone should have to.

After a few more long and quiet moments of holding one another, Sherlock and I break then wordlessly decide that we should head back home. He rises off the bench and smiles at me. His sea foam green eyes are red with held back tears and I can see that he is exhausted. As much as he'd be opposed to it, I think a bit more rest will do him some good. I get off the bench as well and we head back to 221b.

"Thank you for telling me that," I finally speak when we reach our front door, "It…it couldn't have been easy."

"Thank you for listening," Sherlock replies, taking out his keys, "I've never told anyone about my family, not even John. You're the first."  
"Have you ever thought about telling John?" I ask, genuinely curious, "I mean, you tell him everything else and you know that he won't think badly of you for doing so."

Sherlock just shrugs and opens the front door: "I don't know," he says, "I guess I've just always assumed John would want to get all sentimental about it, want me to talk about why my parent's hated me and such."

"Sherlock, if…if I can just say one opinion on that." I cautiously say. My husband looks at me with a raised eyebrow and nods as if to tell me to go on: "I…I don't think that you're mother hated you or rather stopped loving you." I say, "If she didn't love you then she wouldn't have fought to keep you. I…I can't imagine that your own mother would leave you because she hated you."

"And what makes you so sure of that?" Sherlock asks, walking inside

"Because I understand what it's like to love a child in ways that only a mother can." I reply, following him and shutting the door behind me.

This causes Sherlock to freeze mid-step as he heads for the stairs: "Do…do you think that I'm doing right by Hamish?" he asks over his shoulder, "I mean am-am I a good father?"

"Sherlock, of course you are." I reply, "Hamish loves you, you know that. That boy can hardly go 10 minutes without seeing you." Suddenly, what my husband is really asking me clicks in my brain: "You are nothing like your father." I state, cupping his head in my hands so that I am gazing into his eyes, "Nothing, do you understand? You love Hamish, yes?"  
"Of course I do." He replies, "That's not even a question."

"Then you have nothing to worry about." I assure him, leaning in for a kiss, "You're not going to become that man and I certainly won't let you. You are a much better person than that." Our lips meet in a soft lip lock but it grows into a much more passionate kiss. When we break for air, I can only just smile at my husband and take his hand into mine: "Come on," I say, pulling him up the stairs, "Let's be with our son."

Sherlock nods and we quickly climb the stairs. Upon reaching the archway of the living room, we both quickly notice the figure standing in the middle of the room bouncing a giggling Hamish on his hip. A tall figure with a thin frame, very much like Sherlock's.

"You're back," he says, turning to face us, "That was quicker then either of us expected. Evening, Elfie."

I give our guest a polite nod, however my husband is less than courteous: "What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock practically hisses, striding over to take Hamish from his brother's arms and dragging me along by the hand, "Where's John?"

"Daddy! Mummy!" Hamish squeals, attempting to wriggle out of his uncle's hold. Mycroft gently hands him over to Sherlock, who cradles him close to his chest. Content with this arrangement, Hamish nuzzles his head onto Sherlock's shoulder and wraps his arms around his neck; "You not dare when I got up." Hamish says to him.

"Mum and I went out for a bit," Sherlock replies in a much softer voice than the one he's been using with his brother, "Was John here you woke up, young man?"

"Mhm, then Uncle My came." Hamish says.

"I see," Sherlock says. He then hands our son over to me and returns to glaring at his brother.

"You are so good with the child," Mycroft says, stuffing his hands in his suit pant's pockets, "Very impressive, Sherlock."

"I'm waiting for an answer, Mycroft." Sherlock snaps, "What are you doing in my house and where is John?"  
"I sent Doctor Watson home," Mycroft replies, unphased by his brother's coldness, "I needed to speak with you in private."

"You could have called me."

"You wouldn't have picked up and besides this is urgent."  
"Mycroft, you know very well that I do not approve of these unexpected visits," Sherlock says with an icy sting to his voice, "I told you that I am done assisting the government with any of their petty cases and that includes anything that you may deem worth my time."  
"This isn't about my job, dear brother," Mycroft coolly replies, "As I said, this matter is private. Concerning our family, in fact."

A small chill runs up my spine as I hear him say this. Knowing what I know now, I can only imagine what kind of feelings and thoughts are running through Sherlock's mind right now.

"Shall I leave than as well," I say, half seriously, "if it's such a private and urgent family matter then maybe-"

"No, of course not," Mycroft replies, giving me a half-mouth smile, "this concerns you as well, my dear sister-in-law."

"No it doesn't," Sherlock sneers, adjusting his hold on Hamish "nor does it concern me, whatever it is."

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft says, "You mustn't get so worked up."

"Worked up? Honestly, Mycroft, you think this is I worked up? No, this is I not wanting any part of what family affair you feel the need to include me in."

"Sherlock."  
"Get out of my house, Mycroft."  
"Have you even noticed your other guest?"

Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion as do I. Mycroft then motions his hand toward the couch and we both turn our attention to it. There, sitting rather quietly like a mouse is a woman, older but not exceptionally old, wearing in a long-sleeved maroon dress and holding a black purse in her lap. She is strikingly beautiful but what catch me off guard are her eyes. They are a particular shade of sea foam green that I could recognize in an instant.

Suddenly my chest grows tight and I look to my husband. He is in absolute shock. He is as pale as a ghost and for a moment I fear that he is about to faint. I gently touch his arm but he doesn't react. His eyes are glued to this woman, mesmerized by her very presence. She just looks right back at him and a small smile grows across her wrinkled face. Cautiously, she rises up and walks over to us, never taking her eyes away from Sherlock.

"Hello, little one." She says in a soft and quite voice. Sherlock doesn't reply; he only just stares at her as if she were unreal.

Seeing that no one is going to speak anytime soon, Mycroft takes a step closer to me and sets a firm hand on my shoulder: "Elfie, this is Violet." He says, motioning toward the woman, "Our mother."


	5. Chapter 5: Little

_**Hello! Hope I didn't leave you guys hanging for too long. Hope you enjoy this chapter. A case will be coming in the next chapter, I promise.**_

_**Thanks as always for the love and support and please let me know what you think. Hearing from you guys makes this worth the while.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 5: Little_

_'Can you come back to Baker Street? -EH'_

_ 'Is Mycroft still there? He sort of kicked me out. By the way who was that woman he brought with him? -JW'_

_ 'Long story, but can you come? –EH'_

_ 'Mary and I were just heading out to dinner. We can stop by after. –JW'_

_ 'Why? What's Mycroft done? –JW'_

'_We need you-EH'_

'_What's going on? –JW'_

'_Hard to explain via text-EH'_

'_Try me. What happened? -JW'_

'_Mycroft happened-EH'_

'_I figured that much but details? –JW'_

'_Told you hard to explain-EH'_

'_Well is Sherlock okay? –JW'_

'_Right now I don't know. Possible danger night-EH'_

'_I'll be by in a couple hours. Will you be okay until then? -JW'_

'_Yeah. Thanks John-EH'_

'_Your very welcome-JW'_

I put away my phone and finish making tea for the unexpected guest sitting in the living room. I can't wrap my head around it. The woman, Violet, sitting on the couch is Sherlock's mother, the very woman he just told me about no more than fifteen minutes ago. This is the woman who helped him improve his skill but then exited out of his life twenty-four years ago. Is the universe just trying to screw with me or is this just some extremely ironic coincidence?

She doesn't look like the type of woman I expected her to be. I always imagined Sherlock's parents being like those people you'd see in old family portraits; very picturesque and posh with serious expressions. I mean, that is the vibe Mycroft always gives off, but maybe that comes from their father. This woman, despite being very well dressed, doesn't seem snobby at all; she seems like a very well mannered and warm person. I don't know though, that's just a first impression.

I can't help but think though: where has she been all this time and why has she decided to show up at 221b now? Has she finally decided that it was time to see her son? Is she here to apologize? Will Sherlock listen to her if she is? I honestly don't know what to do right now. All I care about is making sure that Sherlock is okay; the last thing we need is for him to have an emotional breakdown. God only knows where that will lead.

Taking a deep breath, I pick up the tea tray and reenter the living room. It's quite and the air is thick. Hamish is seated in the middle of the floor, playing with his toys while Violet is back to sitting on the couch watching him, lovingly. Mycroft is in the armchair, twirling his umbrella about and staring at his little brother, waiting for him to speak.

Sherlock is standing at the window just staring out at the busy London streets below, his coat strewn over his desk beside him. He hasn't uttered a single word since seeing his mother. Saying he was shocked to see her is putting it lightly; He looked upset, confused, hurt and perhaps just a touch happy to see her. Mycroft had ushered him to speak up, but I honestly don't think Sherlock could even manage to formulate words. That's when my husband turned to the window and he hasn't moved since. It's as if he's tuned out of this world, completely locked within the walls and doors of his mind palace.

I want him to speak, to yell, to cry, anything.

I want to know he's going to be okay.

"Ah, tea! Thank you, Elfie." Mycroft says, turning his attention to me as I set the tray down on the coffee table, "That is most gracious of you."

"You're…you're very welcome." I reply as I hand Hamish his afternoon snack off the tray.

"I have to note, little brother, you seem rather thin," Mycroft taunts, trying to get a response out of Sherlock, "do sit and join us for tea, won't you?"

I quickly give Mycroft an icy glare as if to tell him to back off, but luckily his mother does it for me; "Mycroft, let him be. Must you continue to pester your baby brother even as an adult?" she says in a signature, motherly way; her voice is warm and very sweet, just like a mother's voice ought to be,

"I wouldn't have to pester him if he weren't so stubborn all of the time," Mycroft replies, "It's childish."

"And pestering him isn't?" Violet counterpoints and I have to clear my throat to stop my oncoming laugh. It's rather nice to here someone put Mycroft in his place.

"So you are Ms. Elfie Stegerson, or rather, Holmes I should say." Violet says turning her attention to me and giving me a genuine smile, "Mycroft has told me about you."

"H-has he?" I ask, nervously tucking a few strands of hair behind my ears.

"Well, not everything of course." she replies, "I must point out though that, in his phone calls, Mycroft forgot to mention that you were American. Southern Californian, yes?"  
"Yes, Orange County." I say, a bit taken back, "I moved out here after I graduated from college. How did you-" I stop my self, realizing that this is the mother of Sherlock Holmes I'm speaking too? Her deduction skills are more or less exactly like his.

Violet nods and then pats the spot next to her on the couch, inviting me to sit down. I look over to Sherlock, who is as still as a statue. I want him to say something or at least turn to look at me; he's worrying me to say the least. Giving up, I take my seat on the couch and turn toward my mother-in-law.

"My goodness, you are beautiful," Violet says, looking me over, "Quite the catch. Mycroft, you never mentioned her beauty in your phone calls."

"I thought that it would be a tad inappropriate to comment on my sister-in-laws appearance, Mother," Mycroft replies, sipping his tea.

"True, but it's of no matter." She says, brushing her hand through the air as if to push the topic aside (just like her youngest son does), "You truly are a beauty, Elfie. Quite the catch, it seems, for Sherlock."

"Thank you," I reply, swallowing the lump of nerves in my throat.

"Let me take this opportunity to apologize for not attending the wedding or trying to contact you personally," she says, "Circumstances being what they are between Sherlock and I, you see why I didn't want to cause any unnecessary shifts. I do wish to get to know you though, my dear. You are family now."

"I, um, yes." I stutter, "I mean, um…"

"Mummy?" Hamish asks, waddling over to me and pulling on my pant leg. I wish I could be as calm and collected as him right now. Hamish doesn't care who this woman is; he's just going about his day as if nothing is wrong.

"What is it, sweetheart?" I ask, facing him.

"I sit with you, please." He says, looking at me with pleading eyes.

"Alright," I reply, patting my lap, "come on up. Careful, though, I don't want you to spill." With a bright smile, my son climbs up onto my lap and situates himself so that he can lean back against me and happily finish his crackers.

"Sorry if I messy, lady," Hamish politely says to Violet, "I finish snack and dare is crumbs. It may get on you."

"Oh that is quite alright," Violet says, beaming at Hamish, "My goodness, you are darling. So polite and just look at those curls; you look like your father."

"Dank you." He replies before stuffing his mouth with crackers.

"Goodness," Violet says again with a bright laugh, "He is too precious; how old is he?"

"He's three," I reply, wrapping my arms around the little boy's waist so to hold him in place, "Just turned it, actually. He was born January 16th."

"A January baby, also just like his father." She says. Her gaze then turns to Sherlock, still unphased and unmoving; "He reminds me of you at that age," she says, attempting to get him to join in the conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sherlock close his eyes as if he were thinking of what to say, but words still don't come. It's as if he wants to speak, but he just can't.

"Perhaps this was a mistake, Mother, it is obvious Sherlock does not want us here." Mycroft says, obviously annoyed by Sherlock's behavior, "He won't talk because he has to make such a scene out of everything. Is that what this is, dear brother? You remaining silent because it's more dramatic."

"Mycroft, please. I'm not going to pretend as if he's not right there, thus I will speak to him. He doesn't have to reply; he'll speak when and if he wishes too, Let him be, Mycroft, dear," she scolds and I have to bite down on my lower lip to keep from giggling at the sight of Mycroft's annoyed face.

"Now, back to you, Elfie," Violet says, turning to me again, "I understand that your are a bit of a historian."

"Yes, yes I am." I reply, "I have a degree in Ancient World History and I work at the Antiquities Museum. That's…that's actually where I met Sherlock; he was finishing up a case concerning Ancient Chinese cultures and he came to me for help."

"Ah, I see. That was _The Blind Banker_, yes?" she asks.

I blink a few times and look at her a tad confused. There's only one way she could have known that. "You…you've read John's blog?" I ask, shifting my gaze to Sherlock in hopes that this topic may get him to speak. Alas, it's of no use.

Violet smiles sheepishly and nods, looking down at her lap: "Well, I may not be as involved in my son's life as much as I would like to be, but I do try to keep up on his comings and goings." She says, "I've followed his career through the papers and Dr. Watson's blog. Call me sentimental, but I have a small book at home filled with newspaper clippings and such commemorating his career. Same as for Mycroft, but well-Official Secrets Act and all, I have to keep that one under lock and key."

"You over exaggerate, Mother," Mycroft says, "There is nothing in your scrapbook that could harm the government, I'm sure. Still, the thought is very kind of you. Would you say agree, Sherlock?" Violet gives her eldest son a sharp glare and he quickly looks away in shame.

"One never imagines their children growing up to be such poignant figures in the public eye." Violet goes on, turning back to me, "Of course I knew my boys would go places but not in my wildest dreams could I have pictured these lives they now lead." Her gaze then turns to Sherlock; "I am very proud of you," she says in a soft voice, "Truly, I am. You've become such a wonderful man, using your amazing skills to help others all over London and, from what your brother tells me, even further. I couldn't be happier for you, little one."

"Must you call him that?" Mycroft asks, "He quite clearly isn't little anymore. Skin and bone, yes, but little no."  
"He'll always be my 'little one' just as you will always be my Mickey." She replies with a smile, "Forgive me for giving my boys pet names."

"And why do you call Sherlock little one?" I ask, genuinely intrigued. Sherlock never lets anyone call him by anything other than his full name. Well, I call him 'honey' and 'love' and things like that all the time, but that's different.

"Everyone called him that," Mycroft says, "Sherlock was the youngest member of the family and quite frankly the smallest."

"He was a very petite child," Violet explains with a look of utter love and pride in her eyes, "When he was born, some of the nurses thought that he was pre-mature because he was so small. He didn't really sprout until he was older."

"And yet you still called him 'little'," Mycroft points out with a smirk, "He always was the baby, that's for certain."

Violet nods then looks toward Sherlock again: "You've grown to be a very handsome young man," she says, "No longer my baby boy, that's for certain."

Sherlock takes in a sharp breath and closes his eyes. I notice him inching the crook of left arm and sweat is starting to form on his forehead. I can tell that he's yearning to speak but he just can't seem to find the right words to say. For the first time since meeting him, I can see that Sherlock Holmes is lost for words. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach at the sight of my husband in such distress. He was doing so well and now he's craving the drugs. I wish there was something I could do for him. Where's John when I need him?

"You nearly broke her heart, Sherlock, with your faux suicide stunt," Mycroft quips in, "She thought she had lost you before she got to make amends."

"Oh, Mycroft, dear, let's not talk about that now." Violet says, placing a hand on her heart.

"You knew about that as well?" I ask Violet and she slowly nods.

"A parent should never have to receive the news that their child has died. No words could describe how I felt that day," she says in a quiet voice, "I turned on the telly and…and there it was: _'Suicide of Fake Genius'_. In my heart, I knew it couldn't be true; my little boy wouldn't take his own life."

"Would you have really been so shocked if I did?"

We all turn our attention to Sherlock. His back is still to the living room but I can tell by his voice that he's trying to keep his emotions at bay. He doesn't want to break down, that's obvious, but how could he say something like that? Of course his own mother would be shocked if he had killed himself, we all would have been. Hell, I was in a complete daze for God knows how long when I thought that he really was dead.

"Tell me something, Mother," Sherlock practically hisses, "when you were reading these articles and blog posts about me, did it ever cross your mind what I was feeling, if I was truly happy, perhaps, or that I was pleased with the life I had chosen to put myself in? Maybe I was depressed; you more than anyone else in this room."

"You were always a determined child," Violet replies, unphased by her youngest son's coldness, "You never did anything that you didn't want to or was forced to do. If you were depressed, you wouldn't have allowed your career to grow the way that it has. I know that you would like to deny it, Sherlock, but I am your mother; I know you."

"No, you don't!" Sherlock snaps, suddenly spinning around and looking only at his mother, "You only remember the boy that you left alone to fight against a world that hated him. What is your last memory of me, Mother? Perhaps it was my thirteenth birthday or, as you may recall it, the day before you left. Remember how I was that day. Tell me, was that the determined child that you are speaking so fondly of?"

"I've never forgiven myself for leaving you in that house, Sherlock," she says, still holding strong as she rises to be face to face with him, "I was selfish and I was wrong. If you give me the chance, I would like to apologize to you. Yes, there are twenty-four years of ground to make up, but please know that I am willing to try and rekindle some form of a connection with my youngest son."

"That is why we are here," Mycroft adds in, "I have tried to tell you for years now, Sherlock, that she wanted to speak with you."

"And since I wasn't complying to your requests, you decided to corner me at my home. Yes, what an excellent plan!" Sherlock yells, "Did you think of it yourself, Mycroft, or did you both work this out?"

"Sherlock," I warn, adjusting my hold on Hamish so that his ears are covered and he doesn't have to hear his father shout, "Please, not in front of Hamish."

"Then take him upstairs, Fee, or better yet show our guests to the door." My husband says to me, brushing a hand through the air as if to symbolically dismiss his family, "They are not welcome here."

"Oh for God's sake! Sherlock Holmes, pull yourself together." Mycroft scolds, "This isn't something you can just sweep under the rug. This is our family."

"_Your _family, Mycroft, not mine!" Sherlock hisses, pointing an accusing finger at his brother, "I was never part of this family and I am not going to try to be now. I don't belong with you, which was made very clear to me when I was a child. You weren't around to hear what Father use to call me; to him, I wasn't the little child, I was the little mistake. I wasn't planed for. No one wanted me."

"I did, Sherlock Holmes, so you quit this talk this very instant." Violet interrupts, her voice now strong and commanding. She isn't shouting but her tone even makes me shiver. Her sons both look at her and anger leaves both their faces as Violet steps between them.

"I could apologize for leaving until I am blue in the face," she goes on, addressing Sherlock directly, "and you can be as mad and as bitter at me as you want, but don't you ever, _ever_, say that I didn't want you. I love you."

"You left," Sherlock quips back, rather boldly, "You escaped that house and left me there with a man whom you knew hated me."

"And I tried to get you out," she snaps, tears clearly forming in her eyes, "Why do you think I sent you those letters?"

Sherlock's brow furrows in confusion and he seems like a lost child all of a sudden: "What letters?" he asks and Violet's face suddenly goes pale. She quickly turns to Mycroft but he just looks as confused as Sherlock.

"Oh dear God," she breathes out, facing her youngest again, "You…you never knew did you?"  
"Knew what?" Sherlock asks, his voice much softer than before.

"The letters I sent you, the one I left for you on your birthday." She says, "Your father-Of course he hid them from you, why wouldn't he? I knew that he would and yet I still-Gah, how stupid of me."

"Mother, what are you talking about?" Mycroft asks, "What letters?"

"The ones I sent to Sherlock, explaining to him what was going on," she explains. She then turned back to her youngest, who has absolutely no emotion on his face; "I didn't just leave all those years ago." She goes on, "I had just filed for divorce and was fighting for custody of you. I went to every lawyer I knew and tired to come up with a way to bring you to me…but your father made sure that you had to stay with him. In court, he made a case against me saying that you were unstable and so was I and if we were together…your condition would only get worse."

"I could've run away." Sherlock says in a small voice that I've never heard him use before, "I…I could have found you."

"And what good would that have done? Your father would only just come after you and drag you back." She says, tears clearly forming in her eyes, "He was a cruel man and it killed me inside to just sit by and let him break you. I…I let him hurt my baby and I can never forgive myself for that."

Cautiously, Violet brings a shaky hand to Sherlock's cheek and, to my surprise, he holds it there: "It has taken me twenty four years to finally get to see you face to face again, little one," Violet says, "I have watched you from too far away. I fought to keep you safe and…and I let you down. That failure has made you think that I stopped loving you but that is not true. My largest regret is…is that I could not be there to watch you grow and protect you. I'm sorry I failed you."

The room is silent and Mycroft and I exchange a look of worry. We both know what this kind of emotional shift can do to Sherlock and the last thing either of us needs is for him to break down. Suddenly, to our surprise though, Sherlock lets out a shaky sigh and wraps his arms around Violet in a tight embrace. He nuzzles his head onto her shoulder and silently weeps while she holds him in return.

Now this is a side of him, I've never seen before nor did I ever think I'd see:

Vulnerable.


	6. Ch6: Once an Addict, Always an Addict

_**Hello, hello, hello. Back to writing in Sherlock's POV for this chapter. Wasn't originally planning on so, but this kind of just came to me. Let me know what ya'll think about the switching POV; I don't mean to make a pattern out of it, but I found that some elements are easier to tell from Sherlock or Elfie's side of the story. **_

_**Thanks for the support and, as always, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's canon.**_

_**So now, on to the case: Allons-y! **_

_**Wrong fandom, I know but I just really like saying it**__**. Sue me :)**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 6: Once an Addict, Always an Addict_

"What are we doing in here?"

"I needed to speak with you in private."

"Yeah, I got that, but why are we cramped in the bathroom?"  
"Because there's less of chance someone will walk in on us."

"…Sherlock, you really need to think about how you word things."

I roll my eyes and run a hand through my ruffled curls. Yes I'll admit, dragging John down the hall while his fiancé and Elfie were busy with my mother wasn't one of my most discreet movements, nor is this the most comfortable of places to talk, but that shouldn't matter. I needed to speak with him in private a soon as possible and this is as private as we can get.

"John, please," I say, resting my hands on my boney hips, "drop the act and just give them to me."

"Give what to you?" he asks, furrowing his brow in confusion.

"Don't be stupid, John. Elfie called you over here and now you have met my mother; surely even you can piece it together. You came prepared to treat me during a emotional breakdown."

John shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest to appear as if he has no clue as to what I'm talking about. "I promise you, mate," he tries, "I don't know what…"

"The pills John!" I snap, "My medicine for these obnoxious headaches and mood shifts I've been having! I know you have them so please do stop acting so annoying and just give them to me!"

"Shh, calm down Sherlock." John whispers, putting his hands up in defense, "Take a deep breath."  
"A deep breath? God, John, I'm not a child! Just give them to me!"  
"Sherlock, Elfie will hear you."  
"LET HER HEAR ME! I NEED MY GOD DAMN PILLS!"

Suddenly the room starts to spin and I have to close my eyes just to calm my over working senses. I can no longer keep myself upright and I start to feel myself…falling. Yes, I'm falling. Legs have lost their ability to work and it seems that gravity is a lot heavier then it was a few moments ago. The warmth and nausea from earlier today seem to have returned, as has that annoying migraine. Must be fatigue along with all the stresses of today catching up with me. Stupid.

Two strong hands suddenly clasp onto my forearms and haul me upright just before I crash into the porcelain sink. It's John of course, always there to save me from my own health. He guides me into a sitting position on the toilet and I slump to right slightly.

"Sherlock," John says; his voice sounds so distant and faint, "take it easy, alright. You've had one hell of a day and you've gotten yourself a bit worked up."

"I never get worked up." I groan, "'m fine."

"Right, of course you are." John says sarcastically, "Come on then, open your eyes. Tell me: how many fingers am I holding up?"

I blink my eyes open and it takes a moment for my vision to focus on John kneeling in front of me and slowly waving his index finger in front of me: "Do stop that," I breathe out, pushing his hand aside, "it's annoying."

"Do you need some water?" he asks in a rather worried tone

"You're a doctor," I groan, "you figure it out."

"Okay, just…just stay put for a tick." Reluctantly, John rises and fetches my water glass from the bedroom. He returns seconds later and fills the glass with tap water while I close my eyes again and lean to the side, resting my aching head against the wall.

"Before you ask," I call out, "No, I'm not on anything."

"Wasn't going to say that you were," he replies, sounding much more like a doctor then a concerned friend.

"You didn't have to." I sigh, holding my hand out for the water glass. I feel John set it into my grip and I take a cautious sip. It'll take to much effort to open my eyes. I'll be fine in a minute…just so long as John gives me what I need.

"Look, Sherlock," he says, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but this is huge for you."

"I realize the gravity of the situation, John," I quip back, holding the glass back out for him to take, "Why do you think I need my damn pills?"

"Sherlock, I know you've gone through a lot recently and…"  
"If you know that, then you would just me the medicine." I open my eyes just a tiny bit and give him a cold stare, "The longer you pester me about my feelings, the more agitated I will get," I go on, "Just give in and get them for me. Afterwards, maybe I'll be willing to talk with you about this…this thing."

With a heavy sigh and a disappointed shake of his head, John retreats back to the living room to get his med bag. Wonder if Elfie asked him to bring it, or he just knew that I'd need my medicine? _'Probably both,_' I mentally decide as I close my eyes again.

I had known that Elfie contacted John even before he and Mary showed up. That doesn't surprise me, really. When he and Mary had walked through the door, Elfie gave me a look as if to see if I would be upset but of course I wasn't. After what I confessed to her at the park, she was worried that I was going to have a breakdown due to the reappearance of my mother and thus called 'my doctor' to come to my aide. To an extent, she was right to worry however I'm a grown man. I can deal with my own emotional turmoil…to an extent.

Yes, I had wept upon hearing my mother's revelation and I had to take a moment to collect myself in private. Needless to say, her words had an affect over me. When one spends a large majority of their adulthood hating a person for their actions and then finds that those actions were not out of spite but an attempted act of love, it tends to shake their core. I simply sat down on the bed and let her words wash over me. I didn't take anything…even though I wanted to desperately.

When I had emerged from the bedroom about 15 minutes later, Elfie was outside the door waiting for me. We didn't speak, but then again she and I never really have too. I just took my wife's hand and she gave me an adoring smile and kissed my cheek. That's her way of asking me if I'm okay without actually asking it. I smiled back and gently squeezed her hand; that's my way of saying 'I don't want to talk about it.' We then returned to the living room where Mycroft, sitting in my armchair, was bouncing Hamish in his lap while my mother was on the sofa watching. Elfie and I took a seat beside her and immediately the two of them started chatting. They seemed to be getting along, which I always knew they would; they are very similar, Elfie and my mother. Both very strong, both caring, and most of all, both tolerate me.

My mother was my solitary supporter growing up; she taught me that my skills of deduction were not a curse but rather a gift. One might even be as bold to say that she was the person who put me on the path of becoming a detective.

_ "You have a sharp eye, little one," _she had told me when I was no more than 5 years old, _"You can see what other just look past. Don't ever loose that."_ And I never did. Like anyone who wants to perfect their craft, I worked so very hard to control my overworking senses and learned to use them properly. I wanted to make her proud, I guess, but more importantly I wanted to prove that I wasn't defaulted like my father had thought I was. I wanted to be something.

"So which is it today," John asks, reentering the bathroom and breaking my train of thought, "the Prozac or the Celexa?"

"Which will ever will work faster" I reply, slowly sitting up and opening my eyes. Shaking his head again, I watch as John rummages through his bag. He's disappointed in me, but right now I don't care. This is what I need; it may not be the best option for me, but it works. That's all that matters to me at the moment.

"So that woman in there," John says, opening up a specific bottle, "that's your mother?"

"Yes, is that so hard to believe," I reply staring at the tiles on the floor, "Did you not think that I even had one?"  
"No, no, I mean-of course I knew you had a mother," he stammers, "I just thought, well, you don't talk about her much so I assumed that she had…gone."

"You heard what she said. She had gone, just not in the way you were originally thinking."

"And you two haven't seen or spoken to each other in twenty-four years because you thought she had just left whereas in fact she actually was divorcing your father and was fighting for sole custody of you but lost because your father made a strong case against it?"

"Sparkling form, John. You really were paying attention."

"And now she and your wife are just chatting away in the living room along with your son as if nothing at all has happened between the two of you?"

"Correct."

"…Shit."  
"It really isn't that difficult to grasp, John, please do try and keep up."

"I am keeping up. It's just-This is one hell of a situation."

"Couldn't have said it better myself. Now, can I have my medicine?"

With a heavy sigh, John hands me two pills. I don't even ask what they are nor do I take the few seconds to figure it out; I just want it…no, need it. I pop them into my mouth and swallow, completely ignoring the water being offered to me. Even though it's not possible for the effects of the drugs to immediate start working, I already feel much better. Perhaps it's the very idea that they are now in my system that calms me, a subconscious reaction. I'll have to ponder on that some other time.

Feeling that I've regained my balance, I run my hands through my mess of hair and slowly stand: "Thank you," I say, walking toward the door, "truly, John."

"Yeah, well, your welcome." He says, zipping up his bag, "You know, when I started treating you for your depression, or whatever you want to call it, I didn't realize that you'd become so-No, no, I won't say it."

"That I've become what?" I ask, turning on my heel to face him

"That you've become addicted to your medicine." He spits out rather quickly, "Sherlock, I'm taking a risk here treating you outside a clinic. I want you to get better, but I can't help thinking that this is only making it worse. And I say that not just as your doctor, but as your best friend."

I try to formulate a reply but nothing seems to be coming to me. That word, that singular word; it stings harder then I had expected it to. _Addicted._ I am an addict, have been since I was a teen, but that word still hurts.

Addicted: It means you've dedicated yourself to one specific thing to the point in which you can no longer function without it.

Addicted: More or less a negative term, usually connected with unhealthy habits such as the consumption of alcohol or narcotics.

Addicted: Me.

"I don't have a problem, John." I snap back, "How many times do I have to tell you that I'm perfectly fine."

"And how many times do I have to tell you that your not?" he quips back, "Sherlock, mate, you…you can't keep doing this to yourself. It's one thing to have me give you these pills, but-"

"Save me the speech, John. I don't need that right now."

"Does Elfie know?"

"Does she know what?"

"That you've got a needle and syringe tucked into your bedside table."

Panic and shock immediately run through my body. How did he…oh, stupid. He saw it when he retrieved my water glass. I had taken it out when I was collecting myself in the bedroom, but I didn't use it. I wanted too, but I had stopped myself. I threw that damn thing back into the drawer and slammed it shut. That has to count for something, right? Of course right! No, the fact is that I still have drugs in my possession. I'm still addicted.

"I…I'm clean, John, I swear to you." I finally reply, but he isn't convinced.

"When was the last time you shot up?" he asks in monotone.  
"…When the nightmares first started coming back." I admit, looking down at my shoes in shame, "But that was the only time. I haven't used since, John, please, believe…"

"Where's your stash?" he asks, pushing past me so that he can inspect the bedroom, "It'll save you some time if I don't have to rummage through this place."

"The bedside table drawer has a false bottom. The vials in there." I confess.

John opens the drawer and takes the needle, syringe as well as the tiny vile of my liquid escape. He stares at them for a moment, anger clearly visible on his face, then stuffs the items into his med bag. "Are you going to tell your wife, or shall I?" he asks, coldly.

"John, she can't know." I say, immediately regretting it.

"She needs to know!" He hisses back at me, "She's your wife for God's sake and she loves you. Doesn't that matter to you anymore?"

"Of course it does!" I snap, "Don't you dare think it doesn't!"  
"Then show it! Tell her."

"I…I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I promised her I'd never hurt her again."

"Everything alright?" Both John and I turn our attention to Mary who has somehow entered the room without either of us noticing. How much has she heard? Will she tell Elfie? Damn it.

"Yes, we're fine." John answers for both of us as he walks over to her, "Sherlock was just feeling a bit lightheaded but he's alright now. Right?" He then looks at me, giving me his clear _'we will talk more about this later'_ face. In hopes that he will forget about this in an hour or so, I nod in agreement.

"Oh, well, Fee wanted me to check on you two." Mary says, "She wanted me to tell you, Sherlock, that Mycroft is leaving and that you should probably say good night."

"He's leaving? Good." I say, "About bloody time."

"He's polite to me," she says causing me to chuckle, "I don't see why you hate having him around."

"You haven't known him long enough," I reply, gently pushing past her and John, "He's probably not done with your background check."

"Background check?" I hear her ask in a worried tone to which John replies with his signature grunting of _'don't worry about it.'_

With the future Mr. and Mrs. Watson in tow, I quickly walk down the hall and reach the living room just as Mycroft is putting on his coat. Mother is standing beside him, chatting while bouncing a smiling Hamish on her hip. Elfie is on the couch, her legs pulled in under herself and her head resting on the back cushions; she's tired, my poor darling, I can see it in her eyes. This day has been just as hard on her as it has on me. I put her through too much; I really don't deserve her. John's right, of course; I should tell her but how can I? Overcome with the sudden need to be beside her, I waltz over to the couch and wrap my arms around my darling wife.

"Oh, hello," she says, a bit startled.

"Hello," I whisper before kissing her cheek

"Are you okay?" she asks, poorly hiding a yawn, "We heard you shouting. What happened?"

"Nothing, I'm perfectly fine," I reply, situating my hold on her so that she can rest her head on my shoulder. John gives me a warning glance from his spot by the desk but I pretend not to notice. "I'll tell you about it later, love." I whisper to Elfie, "For now, just rest. You're exhausted."  
"'M fine," is all she can muster to say as she moves her body as close to me as possible. She hooks one arm behind my back and the other around my waist, hugging me as if I were a body pillow; "I love you," she whispers, kissing my neck.

"I love you too my darling, darling girl." I reply at the same volume, "So very much." I hold her close and gently stoke her hair while I listen in on the conversation my mother and Mycroft are having in the doorway.

"Now, you sure you'll be alright to stay here?" he asks her, "I can have one of my people to come by and then drop you off at your hotel."  
"Mycroft, this is your brother's home, not a war zone," she says

"You'd be surprised to find how similar they can be." He replies

"Only when you're here." I quip in causing Elfie to playfully hit my chest and Mary and John to snicker.

"Sherlock," my mother warns and I just give her a nod. (Even as an adult, a mother's scolding tone is the most frightening thing to hear.) I notice, however, that she seems a bit on edge. Not in a bad way, but rather like there is something she needs to say but for some reason cannot say it. Perhaps she can't say it because of Mycroft? Intrigued, I listen in a bit closer. I wouldn't be surprised if she had secrets, but why not share them in front of Mycroft? Interesting.

"I'll be fine here." She says, "Besides I would very much like to get to know this Doctor Watson as well as my daughter-in-law and grandson. I'll get a cab back to the hotel. You just go and save the world or whatever it is you do, dear; there's no reason to fuss."

Mycroft shifts his weight from shoe to shoe and then nods; "Alright then," he reluctantly says, "Good night, Mother." They exchange a few kisses on the cheek and then Mycroft turns his attention to the rest of us in the room: "Evening to you all." He says, "Sherlock, always a pleasure."

"Likewise," I lie as I dismissively wave my hand through the air. Mycroft simply nods and finally leaves the flat.

My mother noticeably relaxes then turns her attention to Hamish: "You must be getting tired," she coos, stroking his cheek, "it's getting rather late."

"No, I fine." He protests with a yawn, "I stay up with Dad and Jawn."

"I'll come over here to help Sherlock with cases," John explains, "especially if they are the more challenging type."

"I work late most nights," I add on, "Unfortunately, Hamish won't settle down unless he knows I'm going to bed as well."

"Ah, so he's a tad stubborn." Mother says with a smirk, "You are your father's son, Hamish."

As if he were responding to her, Hamish lets out a soft giggle and nuzzles his head onto her shoulder. My mother gently rubs small circular patterns on his back and, in mere seconds, he is fast asleep.

"I don't think I've ever been able to put him down that fast," Elfie says, lifting her head slightly, "what's your secret?"

"I had two extremely stubborn boys," she replies, "You could say that I had years of practice."

A sudden memory flashes through my mind as I watch my mother gently cradle my son. She used to do that with me when I was his age. I would wake up from a nightmare and run down the long, dark halls of my childhood home, crying out for her. When she would find me, she would always just take me into her arms and cradle me back to sleep. She never asked why I was up or scolded me for being loud in the middle of the night; she just knew that something was wrong and that it needed to be fixed.

"Hey," Elfie whispers, snapping me out of my mind, "you okay? You're crying."

I look at her confused and then notice the damp streak on the side of my right cheek. "Oh," I say, whipping the tear away, "yes, yes I'm fine."

Elfie smiles at me and takes my hand into hers. I simply smile back and kiss her forehead. How can I tell her what I've done? She'll leave me, she must. I'm truly no good for her or for Hamish. I'm not the man she deserves.

"I should give Hamish his bath," she says, slowly rising from the couch and going over to my mother, who graciously passes the boy over to her. Hamish stirs a bit then nuzzles his head onto Elfie's shoulder.

"Mary, can you come help me?" my wife then asks, giving Mary a particular look; a look I recognize as _'I need to tell you something but in private.' _Seems that everyone is full of secrets tonight.

"Sure," Mary replies. She gives John a kiss on the cheek then follows Elfie down the hall.

"I can only imagine what sort of things you had to go through with an adolescent Sherlock, Mrs. Holmes," John says once the three of us are alone, "You must have some interesting stories."

"Well, I was never bored to say the least," Mother replies, taking a seat in my armchair, "and please do call me Violet. I haven't been Mrs. Holmes in quite some time."

"Oh, well, I'm sorry," he stammers, "I didn't mean to…"

"Nothing to apologize for, dear, I assure you." My mother gives her a small nod and then turns to me; "Well, little one, have you figured it out?" she asks giving me a small smirk, "Surely it must be written on my face."

John looks at me with a confused expression while I just smile back at Mother. She knew that I was observing her and so instead of telling me what she wanted to say, she simply wanted me to deduce it. Only she would be clever enough to test my skills like that.

"Of course," I reply, steepling my hands under my chin, "you needed to speak with me on a much more private manner then you lead Mycroft on to believe thus triggering this trip to London."

"Yes, but do realize that I wanted to set things straight with you first," she says, "My visit to London wasn't just about what I want to ask you."

"I understand."

"I don't." John quips in, "If there is something the two of you need to talk about in private, I can go with the girls."

"There's no need," she replies, "As my son's constant companion, I feel that you should no about this as well. Although, I must ask you not to post this matter on that blog of yours, Doctor Watson."

"Um, of course. If you don't want it up, then it won't be," John assures her

"And I do not wish for the police to be involved," she goes on, facing me now, "not unless you deem it absolutely necessary."

"I never deem them necessary," I reply addressing her more like a client now then my mother, "They tend to get in the way and their results are almost never correct."

"So, wait a moment," John asks, "Am I to assume that…you have a case for Sherlock?"

My mother takes in a deep breath and nods: "There has been…an incident concerning the family fortune." She goes on, folding her hands nervously into her lap, "I didn't want to say anything to your brother because you know how worked up he gets over these things."

"Tell me everything," I say, "What sort of incident are we talking about here and what has it got to do with Father's money?"

"It's your money now," She explains, "Yours and Mycroft's, really."

"More Mycroft's then mine," I say with an icy sting to my voice, "Let's be honest, Mother. He left me nothing in that will."

Mother shakes her head in dismay, then takes a deep breath before beginning her story: "About a week or so ago, I was up at the old house. I hadn't been there since your father's funeral and it was to my understanding that Mycroft was left in charge of it. He had told me that he was planning on finally selling it to some company who wished to turn it into a bed and breakfast or something, I'm not entirely sure."

"Must be a big place," John says, folding his arms across his chest.

"You didn't tell him that your father was a member of the House of Lords did you?" my mother asks me and for a moment, it seems as if John's eyes are indeed about to pop out of his head.

"I tend not to mention it to people," I grumble, "seeing that I am clearly not apart of that lifestyle."

"A Lord?" John asks, "Meaning that…Sherlock are you…"

"Rich? Clearly not," I reply, wanting to get back to my mother's case, "the money and the estate went to Mycroft after my father died. That was no surprise. Now, carry on, Mother. What happened at the house that has made you come to me for help?"

"I was the only one at the estate. No one lives there really, except Mycroft has told me he has used the property for a few work gatherings and what not." She goes on, "I was going through a few of the rooms, picking out things that I would like to keep before this company went in and redecorated and such. When I went upstairs and started to head toward your father's old study, I…I noticed something wasn't right. When I got inside, the…the entire room was in complete disarray: papers everywhere, books strewn about, and-and yellow spray paint was everywhere."

"Yellow spray paint?" John asks, giving me a raised eyebrow look. He's thinking about the Black Lotus, one of our earliest cases together but so far there is no direct connection this act of vandalism could be them.

"Yes, but that's not what disturbs me," my mother goes on, her voice now shaky and nervous, "When I got a closer look at the mess, I saw that all the papers…were about you, Sherlock. More specifically, this papers were newspaper articles and web images all about your death."

I sit up straight and cock my head to the side; now that is interesting. Why would there be clippings and pictures of me strewn about my father's office? Obviously, they were planted there but who would do that? If they really wanted to threaten me or scare me, why would they do it at my childhood home? I never go there, nor have wished to go there since I left that place.

"I…I was in such a state of shock that I nearly fainted." My mother says, tearing up, "In the middle of the room was…was this." She then pulls a folded up piece of paper from her skirt pocket and holds it out to me. I take it and open it up to reveal a large blown up picture of…me. Well, my 'dead' body to be exact. It was an autopsy photograph, taken the day I had jumped off that roof, showing my bare body from the waist up. Curious; Molly should have had this…mystery number one then.

Scrawled across the middle of the photo in what appears to be red Sharpie, is a message addressed to me:

"_BRING THE MONEY IN 4 WEEKS TIME OR DIE AGAIN. THERE'S NO COMING BACK THIS TIME. I WILL MAKE SURE OF IT."_

"I didn't tell anyone," my mother cries, "Believe me, I didn't even want to bring you into this. I know that the Holmes fortune means nothing to you-it never has-but, Sherlock, I didn't know where else to go. The message is clearly for you, but I don't understand it. Who would want the money and why would they be asking you for it? Sherlock, please, I'm…I'm frightened for you, little one. What is going to happen?"

Seeing the distress and worry in her eyes, I rise up from the couch and sit down in the armchair parallel to hers. I lean forward then take her worn down wrinkled, hands into my own. For the first time, I feel as if this case that has been brought before me is one that I absolutely must solve not just for myself but also for her. She was there for me in the beginning when no else would be. She taught me how to be the man that I am and I owe it too her to solve this.

I need to solve this.

"What's going to happen is that I'm going to make preparations to leave London and return with you to the countryside," I promise her in a low whisper,

"How can you leave? What about your work here in London, your wife and child, your…" Mother begins to protest, but I quickly stop her.

"Scotland Yard can get by without me for a few days," I assure her, "As for my family, I will bring them with me. If this is a threat against my life then I can't afford to let them out of my sight."

Mother then smiles meekly at me and strokes my cheek. Childhood memories begin to flood my mind, ones that have forgotten and secretly missed: walking around the property when I was only 4, the lullabies after my nightmares. This woman helped build up my strength and now it's my turn to return the favor.

"You see," she whispers at a volume only I can hear, "I knew you wouldn't have turned away. You…you will help?"  
"How could I refuse?" I reply, placing a kiss on her knuckles, "I promise you, Mother, I will solve this case. You have my word not only as a detective, but also as your son. I will solve this."


	7. Chapter 7: A Makeshift Family Vacation

_**Hello!**_

_**Back to Elfie's POV as they head to Sherlock's childhood home. Reading back, I did notice that I made Sherlock and Elfie a bit distant at the beginning of the chapter. To address May2306's previous concern and others who may be wondering; No, I don't plan on breaking them up. I have…other things up my sleeve.**_

_**Spoilers ;)**_

_**Thanks for the continued support! Reviews, follows, favorites, etc. really do mean a lot to me.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's canon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 7: A Makeshift Family Vacation_

"Elfie, call the museum. You'll be taking some time off. Tell them to give you…oh about a week or so. After that, you'll need to start packing right away. Bring somewhat warm clothing and some good walking shoes; the countryside is quite different from the city, but of course you know that. We'll need to pack a bag for Hamish as well, but that shouldn't be a problem. Oh, and pack a pair of heels…and a dress, preferably one the more nicer ones you own. We'll more or less have to make our way into town and my family holds a sort of prestige there. I don't enjoy dressing up from crowds, as you very well know, but we might as well just go with it. After all, we can't have people knowing that I'm on the case in risk of compromising its results. In short, my dear, the question really is when can you be ready?"

Mary and I, seated on the bathroom floor beside the tub, just stare up as Sherlock in complete confusion. We were just in the middle of Hamish's bath and I was just telling Mary about how sporadic Sherlock's moods have been these past few days and, well, now he's just proven me right. What is it now? Just moments ago, he was going through an emotional roller coaster and now he apparently wants to travel for a case and bring me along. And not just go anywhere, but to the countryside where he grew up.

I'm at a complete lost.

"I'm sorry?" I finally manage to put my thoughts together and ask.  
"We're going to the country in the morning," he replies as if my question were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, "didn't you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you," I reply with a roll of my eyes, "but why are we going to the country?"

"A case, Elfie, why else?" He scoffs, "I'll explain the details on the way, but now you should start to pack. Oh and Mary, your still here. Well, good night now."

"Sherlock, don't be so rude." I say at my best girlfriend's defense, "I'll be a few more minutes with Hamish and Mary is helping. You can either start explaining this case right now or wait until we are done."

"Elfie, this is important."

"So is taking care of our son."

"Elfie, please."

"Sherlock, I'm not taking off to the countryside with you unless I have a good reason too. Now, take a seat and explain."

Surprising myself on how harsh I just sounded, I turn my attention back to Hamish who is gently splashing away at the fading bubbles in the water. I didn't mean to snap at him; it's just that sometimes Sherlock pushes my buttons. He pushes everyone's buttons and normally I'm the one who just deals with it and doesn't react. However, It does tick me off when he doesn't fill me in on his plans and then just expects me to follow his lead. I'm not just a follower; I need to know where I'm going and why. He can't expect to just drop everything and say 'okay, lets go.' That's not how the world works.

"Mary, John is waiting for you in the living room." Sherlock says in a low (but somewhat kind) voice, "If you don't mind I need to speak with Elfie in private. Always a pleasure to see you."

"I, er-You as well, Sherlock." Mary stammers, getting up and dusting off her black slacks, "I guess I'll call you later, Fee."

I give her a small nod as I rub the washcloth up and down Hamish's back one more time. As soon as she leaves, Sherlock takes her place beside the tub and folds his long legs in close to his chest. We don't look at each other but I can tell that he's sorry for being so rash…even if he won't say it.

Noticing Sherlock, Hamish lets out a tired giggle and reaches his arms out to him. Sherlock smiles meekly at him and takes one of his little hands into his own. They study their intertwined fingers, each thinking a hundred miles a minute, and smile at one another. I still can't really wrap my head around the fact that Sherlock Holmes is a father and a damn good one at that. He and Hamish are honestly inseparable and just two of a kind.

The consulting detective and his three-year-old son: the perfect pair.

Who would have thought?

"Dad," Hamish says, trying to hide a yawn, "out now?"

"Are you done, young man?" Sherlock softly replies, ruffling the boy's damp curls. He then looks over at me and I nod. "Do you have a towel?" he asks and I just motion my head toward the towel folded up on top of the toilet seat. Sherlock grabs it then gently lifts the sleepy toddler up out of the bathtub and into a standing position in front of him.

"I tired, Dad." Hamish yawns as his father gently wraps him up in the soft white fabric.

"I know; it is late for you." Sherlock coos, drying the boy off, "and it's been a long day for all of us."

"Who that lady?" Hamish asks, "I no see her all the time."

"You mean you've never seen her before," Sherlock corrects, "Well, she is my mother. Do you know what that makes her to you?"

"Gr-Grandma?" Hamish replies after a moment of thought.

"Good man." Sherlock says, wrapping the towel around Hamish's waist, "and we will be going to her home tomorrow. It's far away from London, out in the countryside. How do that sound to you?"

"We come back?"

"Yes, of course we'll come back. It will only be for a short time. This is what people call a holiday, although it's not really a holiday because I'll be working but that doesn't matter. Think of it as a…an adventure, like in one of your books."

"Oh-tay."

"Very good. Now where are your clothes?"

"Bedroom." I reply, getting up, "I got it, Sherlock."

"I am capable of doing it, Fee," he says, "It' fine."

"No, I've got it. You should really go see if John and Mary and Violet…"

"Fee, I've got it. Let me." He says, gently taking hold of my hand, "Please."

We exchange a quick look and all I can do is nod. Sherlock, with a bit of help from me, stands up and walks into the bedroom with a half-naked Hamish resting on his hip. I remain in the doorway just watching them as Sherlock manages to get Hamish into a diaper and ready for bed without a fuss. He really is quite good at this fathering business.

"She very pretty." Hamish says

"Hmm? Oh, your Grandmother." Sherlock replies, tossing the towel aside, "Yes, yes she is. Put your arms up please"

"Why I never see her?" Hamish asks while Sherlock pulls the light blue, long sleeve, pajama shirt on him.

"Because she's been away for a very long time." Sherlock replies.

"How long?"

"Very long. I was still very young when she…went away."

"Like me?"

"No, no, Hamish, I was much older than you but not old enough to be a grown up. Come now, let's finish this up so we can get you to bed."

"She made you sad," Hamish states, touching Sherlock's cheek, "You cry, Daddy. I saw it."

I hear Sherlock take in a deep breath as he holds Hamish's hand in place: "Lay down please," he says, "I need to get your trousers on you."

Hamish does so without a complaint. Sherlock slides the blue flannel pants on him then helps the toddler up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

"Hamish," He says, sitting beside his son, "do…do you remember that night when I came home after I had been away? The night-well, the night when you first met me?"

Hamish nods excitedly: "You come home." He says with a giggle, cupping Sherlock's face again, "It was raining and Mummy let us sleep on couch and her eyes all red. You did have hair all on your face, kinda like Jawn."

I let out a small chuckle; Hamish would remember something like that. The boy has such a strange attention to detail. Then again, he is a Holmes.

"Yes, I did have a bit of facial hair didn't I?" Sherlock says with a small chuckle, taking the boy's into his, "But, Hamish, what Im trying to say is-Well, do you remember how Mum was that night?"

"Mhm," he replies with a nod, "She was happy cause you were there."

"Yes, that's right and I was happy to be with her. She was crying, do you remember? That's why her eyes were red."

"Mhm."

"The reason she was crying that night, Hamish, is the same reason I was crying tonight. I hadn't seen my mother in a very, very long time and…and I missed her. They were good tears, Hamish, not sad ones; just like when Mum missed me and was happy to see me again. Do you understand?"

"Not sad?" Hamish asks, looking up at Sherlock.

"No, I'm not sad." Sherlock replies wrapping an arm around the boy, "I'm just…relived."

"What that?"  
"I'll tell you another time. Now, it's time for bed."

Hamish nods and cuddles up close to his father's side. Sherlock places a kiss atop of the boy's head and wraps both his arms around him in a warm embrace. Sherlock's eyes then meet my own and he smiles: "It's interesting what you said; about how you wouldn't just take off to the countryside with me without any explanation." He says, addressing me now, "There was a time when you'd follow me anywhere, no questions asked. I guess it's selfish of me to assume that I never had to explain my ways to you, however…I realize the error behind that now. I didn't mean to upset you, my dear."

For a moment, I have to wrap my head around what he's just said. Is Sherlock…apologizing? Actually, genuinely apologizing for being him? This is way beyond odd; this never happens.

"I…I didn't mean to snap at you," I stammer, trying to let him know that he's not in the blame here, "I'm not mad and you know that I'd follow you to the ends of the Earth."

"I know." Sherlock replies, "But to be fair, I was rather demanding just now."

"Yes, yes you were. But I don't expect anything different from you." I say, folding my arms across my chest.

He gives me that half mouth smirk of his and my heart just melts. I let a small chuckle escape me as I go to his side. Sherlock stands up and wraps his arms around me as my lips land on his. We share a sweet and simple kiss and I can't help but let my cheeks turn pink. Only this man can make me so frustrated and then hopelessly in love with him in a matter of 5 minutes.

"Elfie," he whispers when we part, "I…I must confess something to you."

Confused, I back up a bit to look at him properly; "What is it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow "Is it to do with this case that you're so eager to start?"

"No, no, nothing like that." He says, now sounding like a nervous child who has just broken some adolescent rule, "No, I…It's my, um, responsibility-yes, responsibility-to tell you this." Sherlock looks toward the bedside table for a moment and then back up at me; "Thank you." He finally says, "Today was not easy for either of us and I want you to know that I am forever indebted to you for listening about my father and being as supportive as you are with my mother. Our lives haven't been as they should be and…and I take full responsibility for that. But, know that I love you my darling and I…I always will."

I set a hand on my heart and just look into those sea foam green eyes of his. His gaze says that he's hiding something but not wanting to ruin his good mood, I decide not to push it. Instead, I lean forward and kiss his lips again.

"I love you too, Sherlock," I reply, "always." He kisses me back but to both our surprises, Hamish wiggles his way between us.

"No more kiss," he giggles, "Bed time."

"Right you are," Sherlock says, swooping Hamish up into his arms, "Let's get you upstairs to bed. Your grandmother will want to wish you a goodnight before she leaves."

"Where is she staying?" I ask

"Some extremely posh hotel," he replies with a grunt, "Mycroft set her up there no doubt. He's having a car come around a pick her up now."

I giggle at my husband's annoyance for his older brother and reach my arms out to take Hamish from him: "I'll put him to bed if you want to see your mother to the door."

"Nope, I've got it." Sherlock replies, adjusting Hamish onto his hip, "Besides, as I've stated moment ago, you need to pack."  
"About that: have you decided to tell what this case is about?"  
"In good time, my darling. You just start packing and I'll be back in a bit to answer your questions. I promise."

We exchange another quick kiss much to Hamish's annoyance and then Sherlock and he head back out to the living room. I remain in the doorway for a few moments looking over at the bedside table. What was Sherlock looking at? Curious, I walk over and open it. Nothing…huh. Odd.

After another twenty minutes or so of me changing into my pajamas then pulling out clothes and my suitcase, all while wondering what is going on in that head of his, Sherlock enters our bedroom and starts to explain this new case to me. I listen intently and take in each detail, but it only deepens my already existing confusion: Why would someone threaten Sherlock at his childhood home? Where did they get that picture of his 'corpse'? Who are they?

To be honest though, I'm actually happy to hear about this. It has been far too long since Sherlock's had a case that has been this obscure and presents a genuine challenge for him. He likes the odd ones, everyone knows that; they bring him joy much like a new toy brings a child joy at Christmas. Hearing the excitement in his voice right now, I can't help but smile a bit. This is the Sherlock Holmes that I fell so madly in love with: the man with a mind like nobody else.

"And why didn't your mother tell Mycroft?" I ask, folding a pair of jeans into my suitcase, "I mean, if he's going to sell the property shouldn't he know about the vandalism at least?"

"Mother had told him that she'd need a few more days at the estate before it's remolded," Sherlock says, putting on his own pajamas, "The company won't be taking over for another two weeks which means we will have to solve the case before then. Lucky for us, our messenger gave us four weeks to comply, plenty of time to get to the bottom of this."

"You mean _you_, not _us_." I point out, zipping up the suitcase and setting it on the floor, "Sherlock, this person asked for you specifically. They used your picture, focused on your death and directed the message to you."

"Yes, but who's to say that the messenger isn't aiming for those around me." Sherlock says, leaning back against the headboard, "Since starting on this particular career path, I have had my life threatened hundreds of times so forgive me if I don't seem too shaken by this recent addition to that list. My main concern, however, is for you and Hamish. I need to take you both with me to the country so that I can protect you."

"You forget that Hamish and I were on our own for three years," I reply sitting beside him, "No one is getting near that boy unless I allow it. I can handle it Sherlock."

"There is no doubt in my mind, love," Sherlock chuckles, "However, I would much prefer keeping my own two eyes on you both. If these person wishes to harm me from the outside, they will most likely strike at you first."

"The papers don't even know that you're married and have a son; how do you know this person even knows we exist?"

"How do I know they don't? Look, Elfie, I have had those closest to me in the cross fire before and I sacrificed myself to protect them. I am not afraid to do so again."

I nervously bite my lower lip and look down at my lap. He's talking about that day on the roof of St. Barts. The day I thought I lost him forever. Moriarty had threatened to kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if Sherlock didn't jump. He made no direct threat towards me that day, but Sherlock was convinced there must have been some immediate danger waiting for me as well.

Even though he had fooled Moriarty as well as the world that day, Sherlock gave up his life for those he cared about. And now he's saying that he would do it again if he had to. I admire his bravery, but at the same time my heart is aching. I don't want to loose him again. Three years thinking he was dead was more than enough for me to go through. I won't let him leave again.

I can't bare it.

Breaking my train of thought, Sherlock moves closer to me and wraps his long arms around my shoulders. I close my eyes and rest my body against his, nuzzling my forehead with his while he pulls me up into his lap.

"You know that I never go into anything without a plan," Sherlock whispers as he gently strokes my back, "and now is no exception. I know what I'm doing by bringing you and Hamish along with me."

"Won't it be a bit crowded for you?" I ask, resting my hands on his chest, "John, me and Hamish? It seems like three's a crowd, especially when you're working."

A look of distress suddenly comes over Sherlock's face as he turns to look toward the bedroom door: "John's not coming." He states rather matter of factly.

"What? Why?" I ask, completely taken back, "Did you tell him he couldn't bring Mary along? Sherlock, honey, you do realize that they are going to be married and…"

"It has nothing to do with Mary, John's just not coming." Sherlock declares, "He volunteered to stay in London and look into a few things for me here. I wrongly assumed that he would be accompanying me: End of discussion. Moving on."  
"But…"

"Please, Fee, just…just let it go."

I shake my head in confusion; did something happen between him and John? There was some shouting earlier, but usually if they fight they'll just forgive each other seconds later. What happened? Not wanting to push any more of Sherlock's buttons though, I decide that I'll just ask John about it later or try and get some information out of Mary.

"So, do you want me to help you with this case?" I ask, "I mean, I don't want to just sit around while you go off on your own. Violet could watch Hamish while we're out; I'm sure she'd like to spend time with him. I'm of course not trying to replace John, I wouldn't dream of that, but I know that you like having an assistant. Remember when we were first dating? I'd help out a lot, or at least I'd like to think that it was a lot. Anyway, I…I want to help now. I can, you know."

A small smile grows across Sherlock's face as he turns his attention back to me: "You have proven to me multiple times that you are more than capable of assisting me." He says, taking my hands into his, "I would be honored to have you at my side, my darling, darling girl."

I smile back at him and kiss him on the lips. We exchange a few more soft kisses and then decide to get some rest since apparently we have to get up rather early to catch the train.

"How will we even get tickets?" I ask, nuzzling up close to my husband once he's turn out the lights.

"Already did it," Sherlock replies, wrapping an arm around me, "I know a man who runs the ticket office, owed me a favor."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" I tease causing Sherlock to chuckle. We lay there in silence for a bit but then a thought pops into my mind: "Sherlock, we…were going to your home."

"Yes, where I grew up." he replies, already half-asleep, "So?"

"So, you said you haven't been there since you ran away." I point out, "Isn't that, I mean, don't you feel a bit…is it going to be hard for you?"  
There is silence and I think that he's already fallen asleep but then I feel his chest rise and fall with a heavy sigh.

"Go to sleep, Elfie." He says, "Worry about it in the morning."


	8. Chapter 8: Is this Home?

_**Hello and happy post finals (for those who have just finished finals). I just got on winter break so I will hopefully be updating this story as well as my Star Trek one much quicker. I was going to update this chapter earlier…but then there was this dragon and so, um, yeah. :)**_

_**Now we head to Sherlock's childhood home. Since so little is actually mentioned about our detective's youth in the original canon, I will do my best to keep to those facts as well as go with my own. Have to pay respects to the creator right?**_

_**Thanks as always for the support. Please review and let me know what you think; it really does mean a lot to me.**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 8: Is This Home?_

The next day, we got up around 6am…Well, actually, Sherlock got up around 6. I more or less stirred and moaned until I got some coffee in my system then climbed out of bed about 6:15. I took a quick shower, got dressed then went upstairs to get Hamish ready to go. While I'm getting our stubborn toddler dressed in the living room, I couldn't help but notice that after Sherlock took our bags downstairs he came back up and locked himself in the bedroom for about 5 minutes. Now that he's emerged, he looks upset and he's fiddling with something in his hands.

"You okay?" I ask, slipping a red beanie onto Hamish head

"Hm? Oh, yes I'm fine." Sherlock replies, looking at me, "I had just, um-can you come here for a moment?"

Curious, I finish buttoning Hamish's coat and then walk over to Sherlock. He then takes my hands and places a pill bottle in my right palm and then folds my left hand over it. "What's this?" I ask,  
"My medicine." He replies in a low whisper, "John trusted me with it last night before he and Mary departed. He said that I am to take one each day to help with the nightmares and mood swings and such."

"Um, okay." I reply, "Why are you giving this to me then? You're a grown man, love, you can take care of yourself."

"Yes, but I am also an addict." He counterpoints, "I can not be trusted with any form of narcotics. You must keep these in your care during this venture, darling. Do not tell me where you are keeping them even if I beg you to. Just have one out every morning when I get up. Otherwise, keep this bottle away from me. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah of course." I say with a nod, "But…Sherlock, do you really not trust yourself with this?"  
"To be honest with you, my darling, no." he replies, wrapping both his hands around mine, "I am sorry if this upsets you, but I need your help with this. You said you wanted to help me get through this; taking charge of my medicine is helping me get better, I assure you. Will…will you do this for me?"  
"Of course," I say, kissing his cheek, "you have my word."

"Thank you." He says, bringing both my hands to his lips, "Now, let's be on our way. I told Mother we would meet her at the station at a quarter till 8." As if to drop this topic completely, Sherlock places a soft kiss on my knuckles then scurries into the living room; "Come now, Hamish," he says, tying his signature scarf around his neck, "time to go."

"Mmph," Hamish grumbles, waddling over to his father then gripping onto Sherlock's legs, "No. Too soon."

"You mean that it's too early," Sherlock says, scooping the boy up into his arms, "I agree with you there, young man, but you can sleep on the train. How does that sound to you?"

With a grumble of agreement, Hamish nuzzles his little head onto Sherlock's shoulder and wraps his arms around his father's neck. Sherlock places a kiss atop the boy's forehead then starts to cradle him and whisper a sort of lullaby in his ear. I can't help by smile at the two of them; they are my world. Sherlock looks over at smiles and me: "I better Mrs. Hudson we're going." He whispers once Hamish has fallen asleep, "Be back in a bit."

I nod and watch them head down stairs. I then look down at the bottle in my hand and ponder it for a moment. Just to calm my own nervous about the whole situation, I pull out my cell and call John. He should be heading to the clinic by now. I make my way to the bedroom and shut the door behind me to make sure Sherlock doesn't over hear the conversation. John picks up on the third ring.

"Hello, I thought you were going on holiday, or rather Sherlock's idea of a holiday." He says, sounding surprisingly chipper for almost 7 in the morning.

"Just about to leave actually," I reply, "but, um, I wanted to ask you something first. It's about Sherlock."

"He gave you his medicine didn't he?" he asks, already knowing why I'm calling; of course he would, he's John.

"How'd you guess?" I say with a chuckle.

"Because I told him that if he didn't hand them over to you, I wouldn't give them to him." John replies with a heavy sigh, "Fee, listen, um, I didn't want to tell you this but-Well, I think that…Now, I don't want you to panic."

"John, just tell me. You know I hate it when you beat around the bush."  
"Fee, I think Sherlock's starting to develop an addiction to his medication. Now, before you start worrying yourself, I want you to know that I've lowered his dosage to start waning him off of it. How much did he say for you to give him?"

"Er, um, one every morning." I reply, trying to wrap my head around this piece of news.

"Good, that's what I told him." John says, "Give him one pill each morning and keep the bottle away from him. Don't let him know where it is and just keep an eye on him."

"John, are you saying that Sherlock's…not getting any better?" I ask

"No, not at all Fee." He replies, "Listen, Sherlock will get better. It's just going to be a very bumpy road to get there. Maybe this case will help, who knows. What you need to do, though, is be there for him and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Isn't that your job?" I tease.

"I consider it a partnership we both share," he says with a laugh, "Hey, Fee, while I've got you on the line can I ask you something?"

"Of course. What's up?"

"Did Sherlock tell you about what he and I talked about last night? You know when we were…shouting."

"Not really."

"Did he…say anything about what we talked about?"

"No, all he said was that you weren't coming on this." I say, confused, "Did you guys have a fight?"  
"Um, yeah, I guess you could call it that." John replies, sounding worried all of a sudden, "Listen, Fee, um if…if Sherlock starts acting strange, stranger than usual that is, let me know, okay?"  
"Define 'stranger than usual'." I say, now genuinely confused, "You know I can handle him."

"I know, I know. I just meant…you can call me if anything happens." John assures me, "Anything at all."

"…John what aren't you telling me?" I ask.

"It's not my place to say, Fee," he admits, "Just…Ask your husband about it. I'd like to know what he'd say. Listen, um, have a safe trip. Solve this one quick, yeah? Mary and I need you both back before the wedding."

"Um, yeah, yeah of course." I say, "Thanks, John. See you soon."  
"You too."

I hang up and stare at my phone in confusion. What was that about? _'Ask your husband…I'd like to know what he'd say'_? What is that suppose to mean? Mulling it all over in my mind, I stuff my phone in my pocket along with the medicine bottle and head back to the living room. I put on my coat and grab my satchel from the coat rack then make my way downstairs.

"Everything alright?" Sherlock asks in a low voice from the bottom of the stairs. He has Hamish propped on his hip and both of our bags in his hands.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, fine." I reply walking down to him and placing a soft kiss on the top of our sleeping son's head, "Ready to go?"

Sherlock looks me over for a split second and sighs: "You called John."

"Well, yeah, but only to ask about your medicine." I ask adjusting my satchel's strap over my shoulder, "No big deal. I was just being precautious."

Unconvinced but deciding the drop the topic for now, Sherlock hands me my suitcase and I gladly take it. To my surprise, but not my displeasure, he takes my hand and pulls me in close. "I love you." He whispers before kissing me.

"I love you too." I reply, returning the romantic gesture.

We then pick up our bags and exit the flat. A cab is waiting for us outside the door (Sherlock really does have magic powers when it comes to hailing cabs) and we climb inside. Shortly after getting underway, we arrive at Paddington station where Violet is waiting for us. She is dressed in cream-colored slacks with a light blue blouse; quite the outfit for early morning travel is you ask me. Then again, her son is the man who wears suits everywhere he goes. Maybe dressing nice is a family trait.

"Oh, little one, you shouldn't have booked your tickets so early," Violet says when we approach, "Look. Your poor son's still asleep."

"He's fine, Mother." Sherlock replies, giving her a kiss on the cheek, "Besides you always prefer to travel as early as possible."

"Indeed I do, but there was no rush today." She replies. She then turns her attention to me; "I assume Sherlock has told you everything?" she asks.

"Yes, I know about the case." I reply, "And I want to let you know that I plan will do as much as I can. I want to help and, well, being married to your son, I have sort of developed a craving for mystery."

"You really are like Mycroft said," Violet says with a smile, "A perfect match for Sherlock, truly."

My husband and I share a look of affection and I can't help but blush. The three of us, with Hamish still sound asleep in Sherlock's arms, head toward our waiting train and board. Apparently we have a private section, which is extremely nice; that ticket guy must have owed Sherlock a pretty big favor.

"I imagine you didn't tell Mycroft that I was coming up to the country with you," Sherlock says once we are on our way.

"No, I only told him that I was leaving this morning." Violet replies from her seat across from us, "How was I to tell him that you would be joining me because of work?"

"So, Mycroft doesn't know about the incident?" I inquire, situating Hamish so that he is sleeping comfortably in my lap, "Are we planning on telling him?"  
"Eventually," Sherlock replies, "but as of right now he is the least of my worries."

"He did say that he called one of the valets from the house and that they'll pick us up at the station," Violet adds, "Honestly, that is a bit much. I suggested a cab, but he wouldn't hear of it."

"Um, I'm sorry. One of the valets?" I ask, giving Sherlock a quizzical look, "What does that mean?"

"Sherlock, you didn't even tell your wife about the family?" Violet asks, "I thought you would have at least mentioned it to her."

"You'll see when we get there, darling." Sherlock says to me, brushing the topic aside, "Now, Mother, I suspect that we'll be staying at your country residence over the duration of this investigation."  
Violet chuckles a bit and smiles: "How did you know I was staying out in the country?"

"It's where you grew up and where you feel the most comfortable." He explains, leaning back in his signature thinking position, "Also, judging by the tone of your skin, you've been living out there for some time now. In fact, going on the state of your hands, you've been living at the exact residence you grew up in; it was passed on to you after your parents passed away. Tending to Grandmother's old garden, are we Mother?"

"A guilty pleasure of mine, yes." She replies placing a hand over her heart, "Can you tell then how I got here to London, I mean?"

"Of course I can, it's obvious. You came by car." Sherlock says with a scoff, "The train was out of the question so you obviously went with the alternative and drove, or rather one of Mycroft's men came and picked you up; you hate to drive."

"Why didn't I just take the train then?"

"As I just stated, it was out of the question. You couldn't get a ticket at the time you wished to leave. You always were an early riser so naturally upon planning a trip to London to see both your sons you wanted to leave as early as possible, however, the earliest train, which happened to be 9:45am, wasn't early enough for you. So you called Mycroft, told him that you wished to come to London, and thus he sent for a car. A simply deduction, Mother, any one could figure that out."

Violet lets out a surprised laugh and shakes her head in disbelief: "…To think that your father tried to rob you of this." She says, trying to hold back tears.

"Of what?" Sherlock asks, relaxing a bit

"Your gift, Sherlock." she replies, "That truly was amazing. You are a wonder, little one. I couldn't be prouder."

"It's, er, um, it's nothing to fawn over," Sherlock says, obviously trying to hide how much her compliment has just meant to him, "Really. This is just what I do, Mother."

I can't help but smile at how bashful he is right now. I've heard people, myself included, compliment on how brilliant and mesmerizing Sherlock's deductions are and he normally just brushes them aside. But now, hearing that his own mother, the woman who encouraged him to pursue his talents, is proud and impressed with his skill Sherlock is a bit taken back. This is the person one first believed in him and now she's complimented him. It's like watching a young child being told how well they've done by their tutor.

And people think Sherlock doesn't have a heart.

A few hours later, we arrive at our destination. Hamish wakes up just as we are exiting the station. He raises his little head from my shoulder and looks around in confusion. I simply just hold him close and comfort him while Sherlock gets our bags. We then follow Violet to a waiting car that she said Mycroft would have waiting for us.

"Where we going, Mummy?" Hamish says once we climb inside the back, "I no been here for."

"We are going to your Grandmother's house," I reply, "Where Dad grew up." I look over to Sherlock who just sits beside us, gazing out into space. He must be thinking a thousand different thoughts right now. This is, after all, the first time he's been home since running away as a young adult. He must be nervous, or scared, or…God, I don't really know.

After a rather long and quiet car ride, we pull up in front of a large brown country home. It has two stories and a gorgeous, green lawn out front. The windows are rimmed with white to match the front door and the roof is a darker shade of brown then the rest of the exterior. To be honest, it looks like something out of a Jane Austin novel. Sherlock used to live here?

The car comes to a stop at the front of the house and Violet steps out first to thank the driver. The back door is then opened for us and Sherlock practically sprints out. I, holding Hamish tightly by the hand, climb out afterwards and just take in the scenery.

"Violet, this…this place is beautiful." I say.

"Oh, thank you dear." She replies, opening the front door of the house, "It's been in my family for ages. Sherlock would spend his summers here, you know, when he was just a boy. Come on inside, dears, and I'll make us some tea."

"Mummy, I go wit Gamma?" Hamish asks, gently tugging at my hand.

"Yes, of course sweetheart," I reply, "Go on then." With a giggle, Hamish scurries inside of the house right behind Violet. I linger on the doorstep for a bit and just look around the front lawn. I've never really been to the English countryside, only seen it in pictures at the museum. But now, actually being here, I can't help but admire how green and peaceful everything seems. It really is very different from London, that's for certain. Which makes me wonder again: Sherlock used to live here?

"Do you need help carrying your bags inside, miss?" the valet asks me, breaking me out of my train of thought.

"No, we don't. Thank you." Sherlock snaps, removing our bags himself from the trunk of the car, "You can leave now. Go about your day."

The valet nods then gets back in the car and drives off. I stand there sort of dumbfounded and look over at Sherlock. He just shakes his head and gently pushes past me to get inside the house. He seems upset, almost like this place is discomforting to him. I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case; after what he's told me about his past, I don't blame Sherlock for being uncomfortable.

Inside the house, I follow him up the large staircase in the middle of the front room. The interior is just like one would picture an old English country home to be what with the fancy sitting rooms and all. Really, this seems like something out of a book, not someone's actual house. I continue to follow Sherlock, who apparently knows exactly where he's going, all the way up the stairs and to the left then down a short hallway.

He enters the first room to his right and I naturally follow but stand back in the doorway to take in the room. It fits the over all theme of the home: English, country elegance. There is a large bed, adored with forest green blankets, in the middle of the room and a dark wood wardrobe in the far left corner and a matching vanity beside it. There is a window that opens out to a balcony, which over looks the backyard. Honestly, I don't know what I'm supposed to do in this sort of lap of luxury. Once again: Sherlock used to live here?

"This was the guest room when I was a child," Sherlock says, tossing our bags onto the bed, "I stayed in here after I had left my father's."

"It's wonderful," I reply, looking up and admiring the light above the bed. Sherlock just scoffs and starts to unpack. "So your family has valets," I say, facing him and leaning in the bedroom doorway, "and a country home. What am I missing here?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says, putting his things away in the wardrobe, "My family is one that you might call 'old money'. The Holmes' were socialites as were my mother's family; my father was a member of the House of Lords, in fact. However, I choose not to participate in any of that aspect of my past. That's much more Mycroft's sort of thing, as you can imagine."

"House of…wait, what?" I ask with a chuckle, "Sherlock are you…?"  
"Rich. Yes, in theory, I am. Why is that so difficult for people to grasp?" he replies, sounding rather annoyed, "Look, I never told you or anyone for that matter about it because I have completely separated myself from that life. I have made my own living in this world without my family's money and I am quite proud of that."  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." I say, nervously tucking a stray of hair behind my ear, "It's just-This is a lot to take in."

Sherlock finally looks at me and sighs heavily: "I know, love." He says, coming to my side. He gently rubs his hands up and down my arms and places a kiss on the top of my head; "I'm sorry for being harsh with you." He goes on, looking me in the eyes, "It's only that, well, I don't like talking about where I come from. You've heard my story so you can partially understand as to why that is. I didn't belong in this life nor was I wanted here. I told you before, I am a Holmes only by name; I am not part of that family in any other way."

He then looks around the room and his stress seems to melt away: "But this house," he says, sounding nostalgic, "this was where I could escape. My mother would bring Mycroft and I up here during the summer when I was very young. Believe it or not, he and I would get along while we were here, but we were only children then. I enjoyed my time here; it's the one part of my past I can say that I fondly remember." Sherlock turns back to me then takes me by the hand: "Come here," he whispers, "I want to show you something."

We exit the room and go down the hall to the last door on the left. Sherlock takes in a deep breath and opens the door. We step inside and I smile at what I see. It's a little boy's room. A small bed is set up in the middle of the room with a skylight just above it and a toy box at the foot of it. The navy blue walls are adored with pictures of treasure maps and old ships. Without even asking, I know exactly whose room this is.

"This was yours," I say, walking over to the toy chest.

"Yes, this was mine." Sherlock says, taking a seat on the bed, "Mycroft's room is on the other side of the house. I was about 5 or 6 the last time I spent the night in here. I use to lay here and just look up at the stars. Never in my dreams did I think that I'd one day bring my wife in here."

"You were a child," I say with a laugh, "I'd be shocked if you were thinking about girls at all." Sherlock laughs as I kneel down in front of the chest and open it. "Is all this yours as well?" I ask, holding up a tattered red blanket with small, yellow dragons on it.

"Believe it or not, yes." Sherlock replies, "I wanted to be an adventurer when I young. Travel the seas; fight off monsters, that sort of thing. I couldn't decide if I wanted to be a knight or a pirate, actually. Foolish, isn't it?"  
"You do realize that your own three-year old son wants to be a pirate right?" I say, taking a seat beside him. Sherlock smiles and wraps an arm around my waist. "What's with the dragons?" I ask, folding the blanket out onto my lap.

"I liked dragons." He says, running his fingers over the fabric, "Something about being a large, flying, fire breathing reptile fascinated me. I do remember when I was very small Mycroft had tricked me into believing that I could one day become a dragon. You can imagine my heartbreak when I came of age and found out that wasn't possible"

"You liked it here then?" I ask, looking into my husband's eyes, "It's just, when you talked about it before, you made your childhood seem rather bleak. But hearing you talk about you and Mycroft and showing me this room, I get the impression that you were happy here."

"I was…for a time." He replies. I can see that he doesn't want to talk about it anymore so I just lean in close and kiss his cheek.

"I think Hamish should stay in this room," I suggest, "He'd like this blanket too I think."

"Yes, my thoughts exactly." Sherlock agrees, holding me close. We look into each other's eyes for a moment and then exchange a deep kiss on the lips. I can already tell that this trip is going to be so much more then getting to the bottom of this case. This place is a part of Sherlock that he had tried to forget and yet, he was actually happy here. It seems that there is more than one mystery out here in the country and if I'm lucky, then perhaps I can find the answers.

_**PS: I couldn't resist the dragon bit. Sorry.**_


	9. Chapter 9: Taking it In

_**Hello and Happy Post Christmas/Post Regeneration of Eleven/Getting very close to Season 3! Sorry this took so long to post; it just wasn't turning out the way I wanted it to but I think I got it now.**_

_**On the season 3 note, I DO NOT plan to finish this by the airdate (January 1**__**st**__** or January 19**__**th**__** here in the states). I have read that a few stories that have O.C.s and or Reichenbach-esque timelines have said that they will end by Season 3's airdate but that's not the case for me. Just wanted to put that out there.**_

_**Any who, on with the story! Thanks as always for reading and please, reviews are welcome (Lady Schmetterling: you rock, girl! Xoxo)**_

_**I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 9: Taking it In  
_ After a few more minutes, we head back downstairs and meet back up with Violet and Hamish in the backyard. She is seated at the table on the simply stone patio that faces out to the yard while Hamish is running about on the grass, playing some sort of game. A small cobblestone path leads starts at the end of the patio and ends at a beautiful flower garden. To the sides of the path are adorned with various other shrubs and a few large trees just to make the scene even more beautiful to look at.

"Elfie, do stop gaping at everything." Sherlock says, taking a seat at the table opposite his mother, "You're acting like you've never seen a yard before."

"Well, I certainly have never seen one like this." I reply, sitting beside him, "This place is beautiful, truly."

"So glad that you like it, dear," Violet says, gingerly sipping her tea, "As I said before, the house has been in the family for ages. I grew up here and had hoped to raise my own children here one day."

"Father wouldn't have let you, even if the option was given." Sherlock states rather matter of factly, leaning back in the chair, "We had to live in that dusty old estate: no questions asks."

"Yes, I won't argue with you on that point," she replies, "Your father was a…stubborn man."

"To put it lightly." Sherlock grumbles, looking out to the yard, "I see you've kept my old room in tact."

"Oh you went in there did you?" Violet asks with a sweet laugh, "Goodness, can you even remember the last summer you spent in that room? When I would bring him and Mycroft up here, Elfie, Sherlock would never leave his room. He was always having some sort of adventure in there; we had to coax him out just to come to meals."  
"I can imagine that," I say, placing a hand on Sherlock's thigh, "Hamish is the same way."

"Curious name by the way: Hamish." Violet says, "Though I can't really comment seeing that I named my boys Sherlock and Mycroft. Where did you come up with it?"

"It's John's middle name." I reply, "Sherlock had suggested it early on in my pregnancy and it just sort of stuck."

"And his middle name?"

"Arthur. I picked it because I just like the name."

"Mother, as exciting as this small talk is I do believe that I came up here to do a job and I don't wish to waste another moment without officially getting started." Sherlock says, sitting up straight and steepling his hands under his chin just like he does when he's addressing a client. I give him a small elbow jab to the side as if to tell him to be polite, but it's no good. Once Sherlock is in case mode, there is no room for manners.

"Yes, yes, of course." Violet says, setting down her cup, "Where will you begin? I've told you all that I know and I'm assuming you'll be making your way up the house."

"In due time, yes." Sherlock replies, "But I need details; I can not make bricks without clay, as it were. Now, tell me about the local residents. Anyone who has paid particular interest in the family fortune?"

"No, no one here really takes much notice to it." Violet replies, "It's more of common knowledge around here that the Holmes' family has money so no one takes special interest in it."

"Who are the more dominate figures in town? Any characters that may stand out in a crowd?"

"No not really. There are of course the regulars."

"The regulars?" I ask, trying my best to participate in this interrogation.

"Those who have lived and thrived in this part of the world for many years." Violet says, "Oh! The Trevor's still live around here. You remember them don't you, little one? They have a boy just around your age."  
Sherlock suddenly stiffens up and I notice the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. If I didn't know any better, I would say that he's nervous. But, Sherlock Holmes doesn't get nervous. Sure, on our wedding day he was a bit on edge but not nervous like he is right now. This is the kind of nervous people get when something that they never wished to see the light of day suddenly becomes a topic of conversation. Based on the look of sheer panic behind his normally stone gaze right now, I'm guessing that Sherlock and this Trevor family has a history, a history he doesn't want to be told.

"Yes, I remember them." He says in a rather dark tone, "I…I was an acquaintance of their son's."

Acquaintance? Interesting. Why have I never heard of him?

"I thought the two of you got along?" she asks, "From what Mycroft has told me, you even went to the same university."

"I fail to see how that is relevant to the case at hand." Sherlock suddenly snaps, "Shall we get back on topic?" Violet and I exchange a quick look of confusion but then nod to him. "Excellent," he says, relaxing again, "Now, of these local residents, do you know of any who would have or gained access to the house?"

"Possibly via one of the housekeepers or valets, but they don't have access to upstairs." Violet replies, "No one besides Mycroft and myself can get into those rooms which is why they are in such a state. I do hope those hotel people clean it out thoroughly."

Sherlock ponders for a moment and taps his fingers together. I turn my gaze out to the yard to see what Hamish is up to. It seems he's found interest in a particular section of grass and is sitting down examining it; I can't help but smile.

Breaking me from my thoughts, Sherlock suddenly stands up and adjust the collar of his coat: "It seems that I'll need to assess the room for myself." He announces, "Mother, watch over Hamish won't you?"

"Oh! Why…yes of course." She says, "But your heading up there so soon? You've only just arrived."

"Time is a delicate thing when on a case such as this, Mother." Sherlock replies, "After all, our lovely messenger has been so kind as to give us a deadline; You've invited me up here to work so that is what I must do. Elfie will be accompanying me to the scene and then we are going to head into town, see if there are any questionable residents and perhaps make connections to the household workers. Hamish!"

Our son immediately jumps up to his feet at the sound of his father's voice and scurries over to us. His khaki trousers are covered in grass stains and his black sweatshirt has patches of dirt all over it; I can't help but giggle.

Sherlock kneels down to the boy's level and takes his hands into his: "Hamish," he says, "Mum and I have work to do so you will be staying here with your Grandmother, is that understood?"

"Mhm," Hamish replies with a nod, "When come back?"

"Not until this evening," Sherlock replies, running a hand through Hamish's curls.

"Why?"

"Because there is a lot of work we need to do."  
"Why I not come?"

"Because you are too small and you could get hurt."

"I no get hurt. I big and brave juss like you, Dad."

"Yes, of course you are," Sherlock coos, kissing the boy's cheek, "One day you'll come with me to work, alright?"  
"Oh-tay." Hamish grumbles.

"Come here," Sherlock chuckles, lifting Hamish up then swinging the boy around in his arms, immediately bighting Hamish's mood. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Violet start to tear up and a bright smile grow across her lips. She must be so proud of her youngest son, the one who was put up against so many obstacles as a child but rose above them to be the great man he is today. I wonder if she ever imagined him as a father?

"We'll be back before you know it." Sherlock whispers when he brings Hamish back in close, nuzzling their foreheads together, "You be well behaved for Grandmother while we're gone."

"Mhm." Hamish says with a giggle, "I love you, Dad."

"And I love you, Hamish Arthur Holmes." Sherlock replies, kissing the top of his son's head, "Now, tell Mum good-bye. I'll be out front when you're done." Sherlock then hands Hamish over to me as I stand up. He then turns to his mother and gently places his hands on her shoulders: "Don't worry about me. I can solve this." He whispers to her.

"I know that you can," she replies, softly patting his cheek, "My genius son." Sherlock places a kiss on her cheek and heads back into the house while I say good-bye to Hamish.

"Oh, I'll miss you sweetheart." I say, kissing the top of his head, "Be good for Grandma, alright. Don't go running about the house all alone, okay? I know this place is new and exciting but I don't want you getting hurt."

"I be oh-tay," Hamish says with an affirmative nod, "I be right here when get back, Mummy, I pah-miss."

I nuzzle my forehead against his and give him a quick kiss; "I love you, Hamish."

"I love you too. Take care o' Dad."

"I will, sweetheart," I chuckle, kissing his cheek again. Reluctantly, I set him down and then go over to Violet: "Thank you," I tell her, "for everything really. Sherlock needed a case like this."

"He does seem rather excited doesn't he?" Violet chuckles, "Most people would be utterly terrified to find out they've been threatened."

"Well, you and I both know that he is not 'most people'" I point out and Violet nods.

"He is the best at what he does, and mind you I'm not just saying that as his mother. He will solve this, I know it, and I'm glad that he has you with him."

"Really?"  
"Of course. You, very much like that Doctor Watson, bring out the best in my son. Have you ever noticed the way he looks at you, dear? As if you were the most precious thing in this universe. He loves you and that boy so deeply and truly, I can tell."

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I have to look away. To my surprise, Violet takes my hands into hers and holds onto them tightly: "May…May I ask something of you?" she asks

"Of course," I say, raising my eyebrow in confusion, "What is it?"

Violet sighs heavily and looks about for a moment. "He's-he's not well is he?" she asks in a worried whisper, "I know that I haven't seen him in many, many years but I can see that something is amiss. He's so thin and pale. I tried asking Mycroft about it, but he wouldn't tell me. He said that I was just being worrisome, but I can't help feeling that I'm not. Won't-won't you tell me Elfie? What's going on with my son?"

I open my mouth to speak but I can't find the right words to say. Should I tell her? Tell her about the drugs, the depression, the god-awful mood swings? What if Sherlock doesn't want her to know? Is it really my place to tell her these things? After all, she is his mother and I am just the daughter-in-law. I truly feel like he should be having this conversation with her, not me.

"When he came home, after three years of letting everyone believe he was, well, gone for good, Sherlock was…different." I decide to go with, "I can't really explain it only because I don't think it's my place to say, but you are right; He's not well."

"What is it?" she asks, "Is it a sickness or something else? Mycroft has told me that Sherlock forgets to eat or sleep at times."

"No, it's not that." I reply, "It's something he…he needs to figure out on his own. I've tried to help him as has John, but it's really in his hands."

"Is there something I can do?" she asks, "Please, tell me. Anything at all."

"Trust me, Violet, giving him this case is helping him." I assure her, "I want to go into detail with you, honestly I do, but Sherlock should tell you about it."

"Elfie Marie! Are you coming or not?" I hear my husband shout from inside the house. I turn to look in the direction of the voice and then back at Violet, who simply nods and places a hand on my cheek.

"Go on," she says, "and look out for him. I know that you will."

I give her a nod back and then head out to meet up with Sherlock, thoughts about our short conversation just buzzing through my mind. She could see he was sick. Does he really look that ill? I guess I've just become accustom to his appearance that I've become immune to how pale and sickly he really is. Maybe it's just a mother's instinct that she noticed something was amiss. You can't hide everything from your mother, not even if you're Sherlock Holmes. No matter the case, it seems that Sherlock and Violet need to talk about his health; he can't keep it a secret forever.

I meet Sherlock out front; he's standing in the middle of the front yard, looking off into the distance as if he were trying to memorize all the different details of his surroundings. Careful not to break his concentration, I cautiously come up next to him and intertwine my fingers with his. He does look very pale; I guess I really didn't notice this morning. Maybe he should stay and rest…then again I don't want to take him away from this case. This will be good for him I know it.

"We can walk to my father's home from here," he says, holding my hand but still looking out ahead, "It's about a 20 minute walk, if you don't mind."

"No, not at all." I reply, "Is…is that one of the reasons you came here when you ran away? Because it was so close?"  
"Perhaps," he says, "I was looking for my mother and I had hoped she'd be here, but other than that I don't really know why I ran away to this place. Maybe it was because the few good moments of my childhood took place at this house." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment then shakes his head: "We should get going." He says, beginning to walk, "Come along."

I just simply nod and walk beside him.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"How are we going to get inside?" I ask after about 15 minutes of walking in silence, "You wouldn't happen to still have a key, do you?"

"No, I don't." Sherlock replies, "I through it out when I ran away. I highly doubt any of the individuals who are working will recognize me so they won't let us in. Besides, as my mother said, they don't have access to the rooms upstairs. We'll have to make our way to my father's study without being noticed."

"Then how do you plan we get in?"

"The same way I got out." Sherlock says with a smirk, "Come on."

He squeezes my hand a bit tighter and we take off into a slight sprint to the side of his childhood home. It is an immense building. To call it just a large home would be putting it lightly; this is house is almost like a manor. In fact, I think it _is_ a manor! It appears to be empty but then again that's just the outside. Who knows if people are inside? Still, Sherlock and I sneak around the corner until we are at the very back of the house.

"Why do I feel like I've just walked onto the set of Downton Abbey?" I tease as we approach a large white trellis that is decorated with various vines.

"Oh honestly, Elfie, don't be so dramatic." Sherlock scoffs, examining the trellis, "It's nothing."

"Nothing? Really?" I ask, "Just like you being rich is nothing?"

"I told you, I'm not rich." He says, stepping back a bit from the wall, "Now, get on my back."

"Sorry?" I chuckle  
"Get on my back." He says again, sounding a tad annoyed, "We're going to climb in through that top window."

I furrow my brow in confusion and look up at the window Sherlock is talking about. It's a third story window and its not exactly ideal for climbing through. There is no way that two people, let alone two adults, would be able to fit. However, we need to get in the house and if Sherlock says this is the only way in…then so be it. With a heavy sigh, I jump up on my husbands back. He grunts a bit as he situates his hold on me then makes his way to the trellis.

"Are you sure you can carry me?" I ask, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.

"Don't be silly, darling, of course I can." He replies, finding his footing, "Besides, I've climbed this hundreds of times in my youth. How do you think I managed to run away without Father noticing?"

I close my eyes tight and cling onto him for dear life as Sherlock starts to climb. It's not the height that bothers me, it's the nagging fear that my husband's strength will give out and he won't be able to make it to the window; His strength just isn't what it use to be. Never the less, we make it to the window and Sherlock adjust his hold on me while he nudges his shoulder against it so that it will open. After a few violent tries, the window folds open to the inside and Sherlock practically tosses me off his back and into the room.

I land under the windowsill and immediately start to cough due to the amount of dust that's in the air. Adjusting my eyes to the dim light, I look around the room. It's a bedroom, a young student's bedroom judging by the little affects that are around (a couple of textbooks, a chemistry set on the desk, etc.). The bed in the middle of the room is rather large and is stripped to just a mattress with a raggedy blankets folded up at the edge along with a yellowish white pillow. Besides the college supplies, there really isn't much to this room. As I rise up, dusting off my pants, the realization clicks in my brain. If that was the window Sherlock used to escape out from then that means…oh.

"Bit different than that young boy's room you saw earlier, isn't it?" Sherlock says, climbing through the window.

"This…this is your room?" I ask, hoping just a tad that while he still lived here the room was a bit more welcoming.

"Yes, and it looks just as I left it." He replies, "Yes…just as I left it."

I turn around and take in the expression on his face. He looks hurt, as if an old wound has just been reopened. He just stares at the empty bed and I can see the painful memories are flooding back in. This is the first time he's been in here since leaving so his mind must be full of mixed emotions right now. An attempt to comfort him, I place a hand on his cheek and turn his gaze to me. Sherlock blinks a few times as if to emerge from his trance then gives me a small smile.

"Come along," he whispers, "There's work to be done."

I nod and follow him to the door. We exit out into the hallway. The carpet is a dark red color and the walls are a beautiful dark oak; of course the inside would be just as beautiful as the outside. There doesn't appear to be anyone coming but we tip toe out of the room anyway. Sherlock takes a sharp left and briskly walks down the hall with me right at his heels. I don't really have time to take in the décor of the house, but I can tell that this is indeed an old house. No one lives in manor likes this anymore and I can't see why they would; too big and too empty.

Sherlock halts at the double doors at the very end of the hall and takes in a deep breath. So this must be it: his father's study. "Last time I saw this room, I was 15," he says, his voice cold and icy, "I never suspected that I would be working in here just like he once did. I hate it."

"Sherlock," I say, setting a hand on his shoulder, "You don't have to…"

"Of course I do, Elfie, this is my job." He replies, "My emotions don't matter when I'm working. Now, step back. The doors are locked."

I do as I'm told then Sherlock violently slams his body against the doors and they burst open. We step inside and I have to blink a few times just to make sure that what I'm seeing is correct. The walls are adorned with floor to ceiling bookshelves but there is a long strip of yellow spray paint going across them. The desk in the center of the room is in complete disarray what with newspapers strewn all over it as well as on the floor. A few books were thrown about along with the papers.

"Goodness," I breathe out, stepping into the room fully, "whoever this vandal was really went to town on this." Sherlock doesn't hear me; he's already deep in his mind palace, taking in every detail of the room, kneeling down to examine each of the papers and mumbling notes to himself. Well, he won't be talking for a while then. Feeling a bit out of place, I decide to take a closer look at the paint. I want to appear like I'm doing something to help? Is this how John feels, like he's just standing around waiting for Sherlock to make some big revelation? I've been around Sherlock when he's working before, but for some reason this feels different. Maybe it is because John's not here.

"Curious, isn't it?" Sherlock suddenly says after what's felt like an eternity of silence.

"What is?" I ask, turning away from the section of paint I was studying.

"That the vandal didn't specify the amount of money he or she demanded to be given in 4 weeks time." He says, walking over to me, "My mother only assumed that they meant the family fortune hence this is in my family's home. It's a reasonable assumption, of course, but there are no other indications that this individual wants a share, or quite possibly the whole, of the Holmes fortune."

"Well, they obviously targeted you for some reason." I add in, "These papers are all reprints of the article breaking the news of your death and you said that the picture the note was left was indeed of you, or your dead body at least. And then there's the paint."

"Yes?" Sherlock cocks his head a bit and presses me to go on with that piercing gaze of his. I love it when he's in work mode; he looks so handsome and his eyes seem to sparkle differently then normal. _'Focus, Elfie,'_ I tell myself, _'Kiss him later when your not a crime scene.'_

"The paint," I go on, clearing my throat, "It's spray paint, you can tell by the splash pattern against the wood and books. Then, there's the very fact that it's yellow spray paint. I remember all that time ago when Soo Lin quit the museum, we had a break in and someone had left a message for her in yellow spray paint on one of the statues. You remember, yes? That was the investigation we met on. The Chinese smugglers used yellow spray paint very similar to this."  
Sherlock chuckles slightly and smiles: "Very good, Mrs. Holmes." He says, stepping closer so that he is beside me, "John had made the same connection when my mother told us about how the room looked. You are correct in that the paint is similar, but there is no connection to the Black Lotus. No, our vandal has gone through some trouble to make it seem that way, but it's not the case."

"So, the vandal used yellow spray paint to distract you?"

"In a way. They wanted to put me on the wrong track. Stupid really. If they wanted to throw me off, they would've thought that through a bit better." However, they knew to use yellow paint which means they know about my former cases."

"Well, sure tons of people do. John's blog is pretty popular."

"Yes, so we can assume our vandal is a avid reader. Then there's the element of a demand for money. They assume I have a large amount but they fail to place a price point."

"Maybe they just wanted your attention," I suggest, "They knew a threat against your life would bring you here. But then that begs the question as to why they want your attention that badly."

"Your skills for deduction have improved," Sherlock says, smiling proudly at me, "Your asking the right questions now, my darling."

I can't help but blush: "Thank you."

Sherlock nods but then immediately snaps back into case mood, facing the bookshelf again: "So, we can assume they are a reader of John's blog thus familiar with my cases and they are also aware of the family fortune." He monologues, "A local then, obviously: no one outside of here knows about my past let alone where my family comes from. And they picked this room, a room that is located in a section of the house that only Mycroft and my mother have access to, a room that played a dominate and dislikable role in my childhood. Mycroft never comes up here and neither does Mother. So our vandal knew how to get in without a key. Interesting."

Sherlock starts to mumble unintelligibly to himself again as he runs his long, pale fingers across the paint stain in front of us. His eyes twitch back and forth but he is completely focused on what is at hand. He then cocks his head left and right a few times before a small smirk grows across his lips. Before I can even ask as to what he's discovered, Sherlock dashes off down the hall and back to his old bedroom. I take off after him, closing the doors behind me. When I reach the room, Sherlock is adjusting the window we had climbed through.

"We'll stop back at the country home to change and then we'll be on our way," he says, opening the window a bit wider.

"To change?" I ask, "And are we about to climb through that window again?"

"Yes, but not to worry, the way down is much easier." He replies, motioning for me to get on his back again. Reluctantly, I roll my eyes and do so. In a matter of a couple of minutes, we are safely on the ground. Sherlock takes me by the hand and we head back the way we came but this time walking much faster.

"Where are we going now?" I ask, trying my best to keep up.

"Back to my mother's house to change, I told you that." Sherlock replies. "Can't be walking around dressed like this. Did you pack a dress like I asked?"

"Um, yes I did, but why?"

"Because, my darling, we're going out for a drink."


	10. Chapter 10: Love You Any Less

_**Hello and Happy New Year and for those who saw it happy new episodes of Sherlock!**_

_**This is Sherlock's POV once again and there's some angst (so you've been warned). I had wanted to get this up earlier but I had a lot of tech difficulties uploading this. I have quite a few job opportunities coming up as well as my birthday on the 7**__**th**__** so I will be busy now, however, I will update as soon as I can.  
**_

_**Thanks as always for support. As always, I love to hear from you guys. Come now, don't be shy…wait.**_

_**Alex Viking: Valid assumptions, but I have a specific plan in mind, don't worry. In a way, you almost predicted this chapter. I don't plan on writing an "shpeal", I assure you. Points for keeping those opening lines in mind though. They will come back, I promise.**_

_**Guest: I'm so glad that you're enjoying it. Thank you for the complement.**_

_**As always, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_Chapter 10: Love You Any Less_

_BRING THE MONEY IN 4 WEEKS TIME OR DIE AGAIN. THERE'S NO COMING BACK THIS TIME. I WILL MAKE SURE OF IT._

A threat, written in red sharpie over a picture of my 'corpse', placed in my father's study, intended for me. Why?

_BRING THE MONEY IN 4 WEEKS TIME…_

Why not name a price? Why give me a time limit but not a price? The messenger knew that I was from 'old money' which could probably be the reason as to why they didn't place a figure; 'old money' means lots, so why narrow the price range.

_THERE'S NO COMING BACK THIS TIME. I WILL MAKE SURE OF IT._

So, not afraid to kill or perhaps just a big talker. People tend to back out of their threats once they come face to face with them.

…_THE MONEY_

Who knows of the fortune: Locals and family.

…_4 WEEKS TIME_

That short amount of time means that they want the money delivered near by. The messenger could very well live here. Who lives here: locals, obviously, and my mother…who has access to the upstairs rooms.

"Sherlock?"

The worried sound of my wife's voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I shake my head and turn my head to look at her. We are in the middle of the road, still quite a few feet from my mother's door, but she has stopped walking. She looks…upset? What for? I've done nothing wrong; I haven't even said anything since we've left the crime scene. Is that it? She's upset that I haven't been talking? Odd, that's never bothered her before.

"Why have you stopped?" I ask, trying not to be short with her, "We have to get a move on. It will be dusk soon and we have to…"

"You were doing it again." She states rather matter of factly, staring at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen. Her normally bright emerald eyes aren't sparkling like they usually do. It makes my heart ache a bit; I won't lie. I hate seeing her upset, I always have. Especially since most of the time I'm the very cause of it.

"Doing? Doing what?" I ask, furrowing my brow, honestly confused by her damp mood, "Thinking? Darling, we have known each other for nearly four years now. Surely you must be use to me slipping into my thoughts and not talking for long periods of time."

"That's not what I'm talking about," she replies, sheepishly, "I meant…No, forget it. Sorry."

"Say it, love." I coax, "If something is upsetting you, please let me know."

"No, no, we need to focus on the case." She says, finally looking up into my eyes with forced happiness, "Let's go. As you say, time is of the essence."

I smirk slightly and gently set my free hand on her soft cheek: "Elfie Marie, please," I coax, "You know that I'll stop whatever I'm doing for you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

I lean down slightly to place a kiss on her lips, but to my surprise Elfie pulls away. Lost for words, I can only just look at her in confusion. After what feels like ages of silence, Elfie turns her head back to me, gazes into my eyes again then takes a deep breath: "You-You were scratching the crook of your elbow, like you do when you get those headaches and when you…you wake up from those nightmares." She says, "I know what that means when you do that but…but I won't say it."

I let out a heavy sigh and run my hand through my hair; "Go on and say it, Elfie," I say, looking down at our still intertwined fingers, "It's no use hiding what you're really thinking."

"…Okay," she quietly says, gulping down her nerves, "You…you scratch your elbow like that when your craving your drugs. Don't lie to me; I know that's what it means. I'm not a doctor, but I've been watching over you long enough through this withdrawal that I can figure that much out."

Anger flashes through me for a quick moment, but it quickly replaced with sadness. I let go of her hand and take a few steps back, rubbing my hands up and down my face. How could she say that about me? She: my wife, the mother of my child, the one person who I could go to no matter the situation, the one person who had promised to never leave my side. She still thinks I'm addicted…and she's right. I am still addicted.

"Sherlock, I don't want to upset you," she goes on, "and I know that we should be focusing on solving this case. But, love, if your having cravings you can tell me. I'm not the only one who has taken notice; your mother asked me if you were ill. You're pale and thin, Sherlock. Anyone can see that you're unwell."

"For God's sake," I mutter under my breath, shaking my head in disbelief, "This is John, isn't it?"

"John?" Elfie asks, "No, this has nothing to do with-"

"Is that what you two talked about on the phone this morning before we left?" I ask, "My little problem? What did he say to you?"

"He…Actually, he wanted me to ask you about what the two of you argued about." She admits, folding her arms across her chest tightly, "and then to tell him what you'd say. He also said that if you started acting strange that I could call him."

"Acting strange? Oh, that's rich!" I chuckle in disbelief, honestly a tad insulted by my so-called best friend's lack of trust in me, "John thinks I'm going to get high. You wanted to know about my medicine and he proceeded to tell you how I'm addicted to it, that it's my new muse or something idiotic like that."

"Is it?"

"Why do you think I gave you the bottle? Don't you see that I can't trust myself with it? I'm trying to make progress and deal with this problem."

"Is that what you two talked about last night?" Elfie asks, glaring me in the eyes, "Your addiction to your medication or was it something else?"

I roll my eyes and turn my back on her, quickly heading up the path to the front door. I can't tell her what I've done. She can't know that I shot up or that I've brought my needle with me on this trip. No, John didn't take my entire stash; I had some vials of liquid cocaine stored in the false bottom of my wardrobe. I stashed them there awhile back. I realize how idiotic that was to bring them along with the needle. To be honest, I don't even know why I did it.

"Sherlock, wait." Elfie says, taking hold of my arm, "I'm…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Honestly, Elfie Marie, I am surprised with your lack of faith in me." I snap, spinning back on my heel and glaring down at her, "Aren't you the one who always says I can get through this, hmm? And yet you're still suspicious. You still think I will relapse. You think that my medicine is a gateway to a bigger problem. Is that what the scratching means to you? Am I craving another, bigger fix? If you worry so much about me relapsing then you should just put me away in a rehab facility for all eternity."

"I would never send you away. How the hell can you even think that?"

"But why not send me away? Trust me, you and Hamish will be better off for it!" At that statement, I see my wife's eyes flare up with anger. I've never seen her like this before. Well done, Holmes, you've truly hurt her now.

"You-How could-You know what, I can't even believe you right now. How the hell could you say that?" She sneers, shaking her head in disbelief, "I'm not going to have this conversation with you!"

"No, no, no. You brought it up, let's talk about it!" I reply; the rational part of my mind is screaming at me to stop but my anger is getting the best of me, "Let's have a bit of dialogue concerning my drug addiction! You seemed so keen to discuss it!"

"I want to discuss it because its important, Sherlock! I know you don't care about your health, but I do!"

"It's stupid for you to worry yourself over something so pointless, Elfie!"

"Pointless? Oh my God, you're unbelievable!"

"I'm unbelievable? You're the one who is paranoid!"  
"Im not paranoid, I'm being rational!"

"You're acting like I'm keeping something from you! For God's sake, can't we just get back to the case at hand? In case you've forgotten, there is a threat against my life that I would like very much to put a stop too!"

"Oh, now you want to change the subject? Jesus Christ just spit it out, Sherlock!" she hisses, pointing an accusing finger at me, "What aren't you telling me? And don't you dare tell me that it's nothing because I'm done with your lies."

"I told you before, I'm figuring this out on my own!" I snap back, throwing my hands up into the air.

"Oh, yeah? And how's that working out for you, the whole doing it yourself recovery plan?"

"Don't mock me, Elfie!"

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock!"

"I'm not lying to you! I'm trying to tell you that you're right!"

Elfie takes a few steps back and just stares at me, a dark mixture of hurt and confusion welling up in her eyes. It's inevitable now; Elfie deserves to know what I've done. I run my hands through my curls and try to calm my spinning mind. God, an escape would be perfect right now. Strom into the house, up the stairs, down the hall, lock the door; take out my needle and…No! No, that's what got me into this predicament in the first place. I just have to tell her.

Taking a heavy breath, I step forward so that I can take her hands into my own. Reluctantly, she gives them to me and I gently run my fingers over her knuckles; "I…I'm an addict, this you know." I say, not daring to make eye contact with her, "I am not proud of that as well as any human should be. It is a sickness that neither you nor John nor any one else in this world can cure me of; I have to fix this myself and…and I'm not doing a very good job it, I know."

"What do you mean?" she asks, obviously holding back how upset she really is.

"This problem of mine, it's one I've had to face ever since I was a teen." I go on, "I got over it before and…and I can do it again. However, I'm not doing as well as I should." I then take the risk and raise my eyes to lock with hers. Instantly, a sharp pain stings the center of my heart. My perfect, darling wife is hurt and all because of my idiotic ways. I have to tell her. I don't want to, but she has to know that I've lied to her. She needs to know about what I've done.

"When?" Elfie suddenly asks, her voice strong and determined.

I furrow my brow in confusion and step back a bit: "When?" I echo, making sure I heard her correctly.

"Yes, when," she repeats, her face completely emotionless, "When did you shoot up?"

A hard lump develops in my throat and I think I'm going to be sick. My heart aches and I have to let go of her hands. My eyes begin to sting and for a moment I think that I may actually start to cry. She knew; my perfect, darling girl knew that I had let her down. How? How could she have possibly have figured it out? Where had I slipped up in my hiding or did John actually tell her?

"I figured it out," she says, answering my unspoken questions, "You disappearing into the bedroom before we left this morning, the awkward staring at our bedside table last night and, of course, John telling me that if you were 'acting strange' I should call him. I too was thinking while we were walking just now, thinking just like how you taught me too; putting the puzzle together, I guess you could say. I thought I was just being paranoid when I came to the conclusion that you shot up again, but your reaction right now just confirmed it."

I can't formulate words. She has absolutely no emotion on her face right now and I can't read anything off of her. Her eyes seem to be piercing into me with their harsh gaze and I can't help but gulp down my nerves. Giving in, I just lower my head in shame and turn my back on her again. I don't walk away; that'll only make things worse.

"Hard, isn't it?" Elfie goes on, "Being on the one who's been deduced rather than being the one deducing."

"I'm…sorry." I whisper, closing my eyes

"I know you are," she replies coldly, "but I really don't know what you expect me to do with that bit of information."

"Yell. Scream. Take our son away from me. The list could go on," I say

"Let's start with you answering my question." She states, "When did you shoot up, Sherlock?"

"Monday evening, when the nightmares had begun again. After you had fallen back asleep, I went to the restroom and-"

"I don't care about details. Do you have anything on you?"

"Yes, in my bag."

"How much?"  
"Not a lot. A needle, syringe and three small, vials of cocaine."

She's quiet and the pain in my chest only just worsens. What have I done? For the first time in my life, I had something wonderful. I had a wife who loved me for who I am and we had a beautiful, bright baby boy. My life was on track and nothing was in my way. Nothing except myself: my personal demons and me.

"You should leave me," I finally mutter, not able to take the silence anymore, "let me fall to my own devices and take Hamish with you. That boy can't be around me I know that. You have every right in the world to just take your things and go."

"Yeah, your right. I do." She says.

To my surprise, Elfie intertwines her hand with mine. I looked down in shock at our hands and then back at her. Her emerald eyes gaze into my own and suddenly that pain in my chest melts away. She's still angry, of course, but that dark, emotionless expression is gone. "I could leave, but I won't." she goes on, "I promised you that I'd never leave and I'm not a person to break something like that. Sherlock Holmes, you have broken my heart; I won't pretend that you haven't. I'm not going to give up on you, though. I love you too much to let you go like that."

"And I love you too much to let you stay," I reply, "Please, Elfie, I've made a mistake and there's nothing for it. You need to take our son and go."

"Just, stop." She whispers, closing her eyes, "Stop saying that. I'm not going anywhere and neither is Hamish. What kind of wife would that make me?"

"A smart one," I mutter under my breath but she hears me. We just look at one another, not daring to speak because we really have nothing more to say.

Elfie then takes me by surprise again by wrapping her arms around my neck and embraces me tightly. I hold her back, wrapping her up in my arms as if to never let her go. Very gently, she places a kiss on my cheek then nuzzles her head onto my shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes," she whispers, gently tangling one of her hands in my hair, "you impossible man. I love you."

"Please forgive me." I beg, tears silently escaping my eyes, "I know that I keep letting you down and you should go, but please know that I love you more than anything my darling."

"I know you do, Sherlock, I know," She coos, rubbing her hands up and down my back, "but this has to stop. You know that and so do I. We can't go on like this."

"I know."

"Then let me in. No more 'I can figure this out by myself' thing, alright?"  
"Alright."

"Promise me then. Promise me that you'll, for the first time in your life, let someone help you."

I close my eyes tight and just tighten my hold on her. I feel like a child, but I don't care. With my wife holding me close, here in front of my mother's country home, I feel completely safe and warm. I need her comfort more than anything else right now, not even the case. I need her near me to tell me everything is going to be okay even though we both know it's not.

I simply need her, just like always.

I'm not as strong as I thought I was and I've truly failed, but for some reason Elfie is staying beside me. She is giving me another chance despite the fact that I don't deserve it. She knows what I've done and yet she's staying beside me. She is a complete and utter mystery to me and I can't even being to describe why she has such an affect on me. For her, I break all of my rules. For her, my entire way of life has changed. That's what love is, isn't it; making changes for the one person that matters above all else?

"Come on," Elfie whispers as we finally pull apart, "put on a strong face. I won't tell your mother or John what just happened, okay? We are just going to go in there and be back on the case, alright?"

"Yes," I reply, nodding in agreement, "But…do-do tell John. He should know that I, er, you rather found out about…what I've done."

"Alright, I'll call him." She says, "Let's get back on the case, though, alright? What you need right now is to focus on your work." I nod again and just look at her with pleading eyes. Elfie just gives me a small smile and sets a hand on my cheek: "My brilliant genius," she coos, "whatever am I to do with you?"

She gently hooks her hand behind my neck and kisses me on the lips. I kiss her in return, but it does nothing for the knot aching in my stomach. We part and silently head toward the house; my hands are stuffed in my pockets. I'm ashamed of myself, as well as I should be. I'm most certainly not the man I should be nor am I acting that way. I need to get my life back together, something I've truly failed in doing since re-entering the world of the living. Perhaps this case will help; I always did feel at home in the universe of a case.

We reach the front door and I open it, letting Elfie go inside first so that she can head upstairs to change. She doesn't look at me as she passes by. I can feel a chill run up my spine. God, what have I done?

"That was quick." Mother says as she comes into the front room from the kitchen to the left, "Hamish is upstairs having a little sleep and I was just finishing making something to eat. I would have made more but I assumed you would be at the house all night."

"Yes, well, I saw everything I needed." I quickly reply, rubbing my eyes on my coat sleeve as I close the door, "We'll be out again soon, though."

"Everything okay, little one?" she asks, coming to my side and setting a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine." I lie, facing her, "Just, um-I'm not feeling well."

"I told Elfie you were looking pale." She says, "What is it, love, you know that you can tell me."

"It's, um," I pause for a moment and look at my mother's worried face, her eyes full of concern. "I'll be alright," I go on, "nothing to fret over."  
"Well, you know best." She sighs, patting my arm then heading back to the kitchen, "Where is your wife, by the way?"

"Upstairs changing," I reply, following her, "We're heading into town. By the way is that local pub still up and running? You know, the one where they serve that dark ale?"

"Hmm, I believe so." She says, returning to whatever she was doing over the stove, "Planning on interviewing the locals, then?"  
"That's the plan," I say, propping myself up to sit on the counter. My mother gives me a disapproving look, but then just shakes her head and sighs.

"So, what did you find at the house?" she asks, "Develop any leads?"

"Perhaps," I say, "curious thing though, asking for money without naming a price. Our messenger must either not care about how much or just wants me to know that they assume I have money."

"Yes, I guess that is odd." She replies rather nonchalantly. I furrow my brow slightly and cock my head to the left. It's interesting that she didn't pick up on that detail as well. She is rather calm about the whole thing, now. Before she was a nervous wreck. What's changed her mind?

"Also, interesting place to threaten my life," I go on, "Who would assume I'd go to Father's study and see the note?"  
"I thought so as well," she agrees, looking at me, "You haven't been to the house since your childhood; why would this person leave you a message there?"

"Yes. Then there's the matter of how they got up there, what with only two people having access to the upstairs. Which reminds me, Mother: where is your key?"

"My key, dear?"

"Yes, I don't have one anymore. Tossed it out when I left there. I had to break the study doors open this afternoon as well as climb up the old trellis to even get into the house. May I have your key?"  
"Yes, of course. Follow me." My mother then heads out of the kitchen with me following close behind. She walks over to the small desk that is set up by the door and opens the top drawer. "Here we are then," she says, taking out a small brass key then handing it to me.

"Thank you," I reply, taking the key, "now, Mother, just out of curiosity…"

"No," she says with a smile, folding her arms across her chest.

"No?" I ask

"No, I didn't write the note or leave that mess." She goes on,

I open my mouth to come up with some reply but I can't seem to think of the right words. I must be getting slow if my own mother can read my deductions before me. Then again, she is the one who taught me and the master tends to be better then the student.

"…Okay, go on then." I manage to say, "Tell me how you worked that out."

"I worked it out the same way you worked it out that I might be a suspect," she says, "You're thinking that it must be someone in town who knows about the Holmes fortune as well as gain access to the house and the upstairs rooms. I am the only one in the area with a key and who knows how to get in and out of that house without being noticed. I could easily get into your Father's study when no one was about, trashed up the place to make it look like a vandals handy work and then come to you to trick you into believing the house had been ransacked."

"Valid assumption, wouldn't you say?" I point out, quiet impressed with that fact that she is spot on.

"Yes, but your are forgetting about the money part of the note." She goes on, "Why would I be demanding money from the Holmes fortune, let alone from you specifically; the son I hadn't spoken to since his teens?"  
"Divorce can be a harmful thing to a pocket book."

"A divorce that took place over 20 years ago, yes, but I have my own family fortune. You know that I didn't marry your father for the money, Sherlock."

"To be honest, Mother, I don't know why you even married him at all." I realize how harsh my statement may have sounded just now and I look at my shoes in shame. "Apologies, that was…a tad out of line."

She lets out a bright laugh and places a soft kiss on my cheek.

"I have faith in you, little one," she says, "you'll solve this."

"Is that why you're not a nervous anymore?" I ask, "Your faith in me?"  
"Of course." My mother chuckles and places her hands on my arms, "You are a brilliant man, Sherlock, and to be honest I'm not the least bit insulted by being a suspect. It makes sense, really, however I will tell you right now that it wasn't me."

"Most of the people I accuse of crimes say that, but only a handful are telling the truth." I reply, "I believe you, Mother."

"But you won't eliminate me completely." She states, "Even though I just told you it wasn't me."

"What kind of detective would I be if I just took your word for it?" I reply back with a smirk.

Just then, I hear the sound of Elfie's footsteps coming down the stairs. I turn my attention to her and my heart seems to skip a beat. She is wearing this simple black, halter dress and she's tied her hair back into a high bun, keeping it out of her eyes. Outward beauty doesn't usually take me back, but this woman is mesmerizing; she always has been to me. Not taking my eyes off of her, I walk over to the bottom of the stairs and hold a hand out to her. She looks at my hand in confusion, but takes it anyway.

"You look amazing," I whisper, intertwining my fingers with hers.

"I don't like wearing dresses," she replies, "You owe me."

"Of course I do," I say. We look at one another, the argument from earlier still causing tension between us, and just exchange a soft smile. "Right, well, we're off again." I say, turning back to my mother, "Don't wait up."

"Sherlock, your are an adult. I wasn't planning on waiting up for you." My mother replies, opening the door for us.

"If Hamish is fussing before bed, please feel free to call me." Elfie says over her shoulder as we head out, "Just because Sherlock's on a case, it won't be a problem."

"Oh, I can manage, dear." My mother replies, "All you need to do is take care of Sherlock, Elfie."

"She knows that, Mother." I reply without turning back around, "She's been doing that since the day I met her." I hear her chuckle and close the door as Elfie and I head down the path again, this time heading to the left toward the more populated part of town.

"I searched your bag," Elfie says after a few minutes of awkward silence.

"Hmm, did you find them?" I ask, looking straight ahead.

"Yes."

"And you disposed of them?"

"I'm not going to tell you what I did with them."

"…Fair enough."

It is silent again.

"I still love you, you know." She soon says, "You broke my heart and I'm hurt, but that doesn't mean I don't love you."

"That's a comforting thought," I reply, "I've said it before but I couldn't stand the thought of you hating me."

"I can't hate you, Sherlock Sure, I can be angry and furious and completely distraught over you, but hate? No, that's never going to happen."

We look at one another and my heartache seems to die down just a little. She hasn't forgiven me, nor should she, but I don't see any anger in her eyes. Cautiously, I lean forward and place a kiss on cheek. She doesn't pull away; she just turns her head a small bit so that my lips land on the corner of her mouth. Our eyes lock again for a brief moment then we both look ahead once more as we continue to walk, hands tightly intertwined.


End file.
